


Let a Bower Be Our Bed

by ShadesofPemberleyThusPolluted



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-01-15 20:12:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18506224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadesofPemberleyThusPolluted/pseuds/ShadesofPemberleyThusPolluted
Summary: Exiled from Longbourne by her violent mother, Elizabeth Bennet stays at Hunsford with her sister Mary and her new brother-in-law, Mr. Collins. Everything seems hopeless, her prospects entirely diminished, and her future bleak. But a week after she arrives, she meets Lord Thomas Fitzwilliam and his cousin, Mister Fitzwilliam Darcy. All at once, her life begins to improve. However, unbeknownst to all of them, she’s in more danger in Kent than she was at home. Her new friends have deadly enemies and soon she will too.





	1. Sunday, July 25th, 1813

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a traditional relationship story. The main characters will eventually become a polyamorous triad. If monogamy is a must for you, then please find another story, because you won't like this one. That being said, there isn't anything graphic here, all that happens off screen. This story does contain brief descriptions of violent child abuse. It isn't an ongoing thing, but something that happened in the past. 
> 
> I would love feedback, but please be gentle. I'm ridiculously sensitive and this is the first thing I have shared.

In the early hours of Sunday, July 25th, 1813, a somber trio of figures trudge to the church of Rosings in the dark fog. They do not have far to go. One of the trio, the happiest of the three, has the patronage of the Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings and he ruminates over what delicate compliments that he might bestow upon her after the service. His wife, Mrs. Mary Collins, walks beside him, almost as happy as he is, though the quality of her temperament means that she is nowhere near as excitable. She keeps quiet, allowing him his mental preparations for the service to come. Though very newly married, they have already settled into a comfortable rhythm of life. The fog does not bother them and neither does the dark mood of their third companion, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. 

Neither the rising of the sun, nor their arrival at the church brings Elizabeth any solace. They are the first to arrive and she knows she will have to wait at least an hour until the service begins, so there is no hope for a distraction of any kind for a long while. Mary bustles about the place, already skilled at completing her tasks, though she is new to them. Elizabeth does not want to get in her way, so she sits about feeling equal parts listless and agitated. The hard pew hurts her body, and she shifts around, trying to gain some measure of comfort, but finds none. There is no pleasant thought on which her mind can alight to distract her and that hurts her more than the pew. 

Again, without bidding, her mind runs through her predicament, as it has regularly since the ordeal began. Longbourn, her home, is no longer a welcome place for her and her prospects of marriage are gone, due to her banishment by her mother. Few of her friends risk garnering her mother’s wrath in order to help her. Jane can do nothing to still their mother’s resentment. Even her beloved father has seemingly abandoned her. Her only options, it seems, are to rely on the kindness of relatives or to take up some profession and fend for herself. 

Her Aunt Gardiner in London has offered her 40 pounds a year, plus room and board, to act as governess to her cousins. Elizabeth has come to Hunsford to think over the offer and be free, for a moment, perhaps the last moment in a long time, from her boisterous younger relatives. Though she loves them dearly, the thought of being their governess causes her despair. Before she had been banished from home, she had hoped it would only be a few years until she was guiding and teaching children of her own. And she now faces a long life of caring for other people’s children, with no place to call her own.

Her thoughts are so all encompassing that she fails to realize when people begin to file into the building and take their places in the boxes and pews. Mr. Collins begins to speak from the pulpit before she realizes that the church is no longer empty. As soon as he gets to the meat of his homily, it is clear that his version of religion will likewise offer her no solace from her despair. 

Upon listening further, Elizabeth determines his preaching to be even more mundane than his conversation. His monologue is flat and totally unaffected by any of the real devotion that he evinces towards his religion in private conversation. Yet, even were his tone better, things could not vastly improve, because his theme inspires nothing but a desire for the service to end. 

Elizabeth thinks that church should almost inflict awe upon the souls in the pews, creating wonder at the mystical relationship between god and man. It should overwhelm and stupefy. Instead, she feels like she’s getting lectured about etiquette from a very fussy tutor. 

Seeking any possible diversion, she turns her attention to looking about the room. She has spent the last six days in Kent hearing intimate details about the current residents of Rosings Park, the home of Mr. Collins’ patroness. At the least, she may find some sport in comparing the descriptions she has had from Collins about them to their actual selves. They had all sounded thoroughly ridiculous when he had described him, but then, everyone does. 

First in line is Lady Catherine de Bourgh his patroness herself, the daughter of the 5th Earl Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth judges her to be approximately 50 years old, still attractive and strong, though she wears a very sour look, which Collins did not mention. Her clothes, as do most older women’s, resemble those she wore in her youth. Most of the woman’s attention is focused on Mr. Collins, but she spares a look, here and there, to watch the congregation and raise an eyebrow at anyone who fidgets or coughs overly much. 

Next to her must be her daughter Miss Anne de Bourgh, a pale and sickly, but not unattractive girl. From her mannerisms to her clothing, she is a smaller, less hearty version of her mother. Elizabeth wonders that a tailor would produce something so old-fashioned willingly. Money must go a long way to keeping their tongues still and the 18th century fashions flowing. Collins had described Miss deBourgh as a beauty, but Elizabeth doesn’t think she would be so, even if she had better clothes and health. She is said to be engaged to one of the gentlemen staying in her home. Elizabeth presumes it is one of the men to her right.

These women seem equally likely to give Elizabeth some amusement, if not in church, at least once they are asked to Rosings. Watching Collins interact with them seems very promising just on its own. Elizabeth turns her attention to the other two in the party, the gentlemen. 

The first she examines is a tall young man with dark, curly hair. He wears a very smart looking blue jacket, last year’s fashions, if not this year’s, and his appearance is very neat. Some of the roundness of youth clings to him. His face is well constructed, but his brow is knit and he seems angry or anxious. At best, he seems too stern and at worst, stuck up. That is, until he turns to whisper something to the smaller man seated next to him. Then his face changes, now lit with affection and warmth. 

Elizabeth gasps softly at the shift. The other man whispers something back to him and the taller man smiles and he is utterly transformed. He looks as amiable as Mr. Bingley and he might be the handsomest man she’s ever seen. A smile breaks out over her own lips, just at the sight of him. How strange and captivating, she thinks. 

The man he smiled at is smaller and shorter than him, though they have the same hair, almost the same clothing, and bear more than a passing resemblance to each other. Collins had said something about them being cousins, she is almost certain. But where the taller one exudes prideful masculinity, the smaller man is achingly beautiful. Even with a week's worth of beard, there is something feminine about his features. Whatever the other man has said to him, it has animated him and she can see an intense personality resides within. But he looks very tired and thin, almost as ill as Miss de Bourgh, and he does not actually smile. 

One of the men is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and the other is the 7th Earl Fitzwilliam, Thomas Fitzwilliam, but she does not know one from the other. She tries to remember precisely what Mr. Collins has told her. After a moment, she recalls that the Earl had only recently gained his title, after an accident that had killed the rest of his family, including his brother and nephew, the heirs apparent. When Mr. Collins had told her the story, in a reverently hushed, but excited tone, it had darkened her already dejected mood. She can only imagine what losing so many relatives might do to a person. The aftermath would be horrendous. The smaller man, with the large, dark bags under his eyes, must be the Earl then. 

The way that Collins had described them to her, illustrious and accomplished, she had pictured them as older. She wonders, can a man of not much more than five and twenty even be illustrious or even truly accomplished, Earl or not? Descriptives aside, she is intrigued by them. 

Cursing herself for not paying more attention when Collins spoke of them, she observes their conduct, trying to make out something of their characters. She thinks that they both might be as bored as she is, because after speaking to his cousin for a little while, Mr. Darcy begins staring at the wall in the most disinterested way. The Earl Fitzwilliam abandons staring at his lap and now looks about the room just like Elizabeth has been doing. This gives her an opportunity to examine his face while he is thinking.

While she is studying the Earl Fitzwilliam’s face for signs of any personality defect that might amuse her, she finds his attention has turned to her. His eyes search her with a raw curiosity people rarely display. She smiles at him without meaning to. There are dark bags under his eyes, but his eyes shine at her and he grins in a small way, self consciously, his lips quirking to one side. When she beams at him, the smile grows until it almost covers his whole face. She looks away at the intensity of it. 

“…And therefore we must love God’s laws..” Mr. Collins drones on, unaware of his congregation’s disinterest. Elizabeth wants to roll her eyes at how boring it all is. She looks at the Earl Fitzwilliam and finds that he is doing just that. Laughter leaps from her mouth before she can stop it. The parson is completely thrown off and Mary looks at her with murder in her eyes. The rest of the congregation looks at her with interest. Elizabeth casts her eyes to the floor and tries to stop smiling. 

Several minutes pass before she risks looking up again. She is certain that Lady Catherine will be boring a hole in the side of her head with her disdainful stare. When she does get the courage, she finds only the Earl’s eyes still fixed on her. She gives him her most fetching smile just as his cousin Mr. Darcy turns to look at her as well. Unlike his cousins, this man looks quite healthy, his face full and his tone good. When their eyes meet, a jolt of electricity rushes through her. She looks away and just as quickly looks back, but he has turned his attention away from her again. 

After the service ends, the Collinses proceed to the back of the church to greet the congregants. Elizabeth goes with them, for lack of anything better to do. She would love to speak to the gentlemen, but they must be introduced first, and it is just her luck that Lady Catherine’s retinue are the last to leave the church, as the old woman likes to stop and talk extensively with Mr. Collins after the service. 

When the time finally comes, Mr. Collins introduces her to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Miss de Bourgh, the 7th Earl Fitzwilliam, Lord Thomas Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. The gentlemen bow deeply to her and both smile at her, though their manners are more restrained than in the interlude they shared in the middle of the service. She curtsies to them and tries to look more like the kind of girl who does not laugh in church. With that taken care of, Lady Catherine launches into a tirade to Mr. Collins. She has taken exception to some point of doctrine and feels they must hash it out at once. 

Elizabeth’s heart falls when the two gentlemen walk away after the introduction. She had hoped that they might want to socialize. But she castigates herself for assuming that they would even think to speak to her. They’re leagues beyond her. They make Mr. Bingley look like a country farmer in comparison. They probably each speak three languages and play music extensively. Having been introduced as Mr. Collins’ relation probably makes her even less appealing as a conversational partner. In short, her thoughts on them have wholly changed. She is convinced that they are illustrious, if anyone can be, and they must also be quite accomplished.

She is berating herself for her supposition when Lord Fitzwilliam turns back towards her when he’s about 10 feet away and jerks his head towards where Mr. Darcy stands. Her heart lifts and she follows them, without looking to see what her sister might say. A thrill runs though her at the prospect of good conversation. They stop in the shade of a large oak and she joins them. Mr. Darcy poses, as gentlemen sometimes do, unconsciously showing his form off to best advantage. He is long and lanky, but not thin, like his cousin. His clothes are perfectly tailored.

“Hello, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, is it?” Lord Fitzwilliam asks, his voice sounding a little scratchy, as if he has been ill recently or it has been disused. 

“It is. Lord Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes,” he says happily. 

Elizabeth turns to the other man and asks, “and Mr. Darcy?” 

“Correct, madam,” Mr. Darcy says courteously with a nod of his head. 

“It is good to meet you. I have heard so much about you from my brother-in-law.” 

“I hope not using the same tone he preaches with or you should think us the most dull men in the world,” Lord Fitzwilliam says with a laugh, which seems to surprise Darcy. 

She smiles, glad to find they also do not like the man. But she concedes, “he is rather more animated in the comfort of his own home. There are two topics on which he speaks with animation, theology and anything related to Rosings. He speaks of any of its inhabitants with excitement and reverence. That is why I am surprised to find him so dull in the pulpit.” 

“Is this your first time hearing him preach?” Mr. Darcy asks with some confusion. 

“It is. Though he is my brother-in-law, my acquaintance with him has been short and all in Hertfordshire. We did not have the dubious pleasure of hearing him preach there. I confess that he was not popular there. And if he had preached, he would have been even less popular.”

“And yet your sister married him.” Lord Fitzwilliam points out with a bit of a grimace on his face.

“Yes, she was the only one who held him in esteem.” She looks back at them fondly. “He is a bore, but my sister is happy and well situated. So I can have no reason to complain.”

Lord Fitzwilliam agrees, “I suppose that’s most important. And even a man such as Collins deserves happiness.” 

He looks her in the eyes, a small smile on his lips and asks “how are you enjoying Kent?”

“I have only seen Hunsford so far, aside from the drive in, though I have been here a week now, ” Elizabeth answers regretfully. 

"And Collins has kept you locked up at Hunsford this whole time?” Lord Fitzwilliam asks with a frown. But then his face brightens and he declares, “well, that should be remedied soon. You shall dine at Rosings at the earliest possible instance.” 

At the prospect of good company and good food, Elizabeth grins. “That would be very agreeable. Mr. Collins has told me all about Rosings. I am interested to see if his accounts match the truth.”

“His stories!” Lord Fitzwilliam says with a laugh. “They are singularly droll.” 

Upon hearing the smaller man laugh again, Mr. Darcy is momentarily astounded. He recovers himself quickly, but Elizabeth notices. The Earl seems like a very agreeable man, surely he cannot not have been so unwell that a laugh or two should be so rare as to astound his companion. 

“And how long are you to stay in Kent?” Mr. Darcy asks her eagerly. 

Up to this point he has been quiet. She looks at him and she feels a rush of something all throughout her. It is warm and quick and gone and back again before she can even think of a reply. There is something about the way he sets his lips as he patiently awaits her answer that strikes her as very dear. 

The spell breaks and a wide grin breaks out on Elizabeth’s face. She says, “I have no fixed duration, but I should expect a month at least, unless my sister tires of me before then.” The thought of another five weeks in Kent had upset her earlier this morning, but now it pleases her immensely.

“Excellent,” Lord Fitzwilliam says with obvious relish. “There’s not much company here. And what there is hardly fits the bill.”

“I shall endeavor to fill in the gaps then, Lord Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth promises. 

“I’m sure you’ll do quite nicely,” Lord Fitzwilliam says reassuringly. “You could hardly do worse.”

“Thank you, My Lord. I have been a week in Mr. Collins’ company and before that more than a month with my young cousins in London. I look forward to entertainment and merriment. I will hear no more of dolls or toy soldiers or Fordyce’s Sermons. They have rotted my brain, I fear.” 

With animation, Lord Fitzwilliam answers, “then when you come to Rosings, let us have music, conversation, dancing, games on the lawn, carriage rides, and long walks.” 

Elizabeth laughs in delight, because nothing could be more suited to please her. There is a light in his eyes that makes all of those activities sound more thrilling than they ever have before.

She responds,“but how shall we fit all that into one evening at Rosings?”

“You shall have to come much more often than that, Miss Bennet,” he says with a wicked smile. It makes her feel more wanted and appreciated than she has since she left home. 

“I believe that with such a vigorous plan of action, I shall soon feel like myself again.”

“Indeed,” Lord Fitzwilliam says. “I think it would be just the thing for me as well.” He looks at Mr. Darcy. “In fact, it would do us both a world of good.”

Elizabeth admits, “I look forward to it, Lord Fitzwilliam. There was not much time for anything fun in London.” 

“And where do these small cousins, who have kept you away from everything enjoyable, stay in London?” Lord Fitzwilliam asks. 

Elizabeth says, “with their parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, my uncle and aunt. They live in Cheapside. My uncle is in trade.” She looks at their faces to see if their noses wrinkle in disgust or some of the attention they are showing her fades. But neither thing happens. 

Instead, Mr. Darcy asks, just a hint of teasing in his voice, “and is your Aunt such a tyrant that she would not let you out to dance or meet friends?” It is hard for her to read him. He seems so stern, yet his words are all kindness to her.

Abashed, Elizabeth says, “indeed not! Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I did not make the time while I was in London,” she says. 

She looks down at the ground, focusing momentarily on the grass, the dirt, and the bugs to center herself. “My mood when I was there was not as good as it is now,” she admits, unable to keep herself from frowning. 

Lord Fitzwilliam sighs. Very gently he affirms, “we all have our trials, Miss Bennet. There is no shame in that or in momentarily being bested by them.” 

Elizabeth nods, uncertain of what to say. Cognizant of the fact that she doesn’t know them, she will not share too much right away. Mr. Darcy saves her from having to say anything in response and she is grateful to him. 

In a polite tone the tall man asks, “where are you from, Miss Bennet?”

“Hertfordshire, near a town called Meryton. My father’s estate is called Longbourne.” 

A surprised look comes over both men’s faces. “Do you have an elder sister named Jane?” Mr. Darcy queries excitedly, all trace of sternness gone. 

Now it’s Elizabeth’s turn to be surprised to hear her beloved sister’s name coming from the mouth of a new acquaintance. “I do, sir! Do you know her?” She does not think it possible that they do.

He shakes his head with a smile and confirms her suspicions. “No, but we know Mr. Charles Bingley. He mentions your sister often in his letters. Indeed, he seems capable of writing of little else,” he says with a chuckle. 

Elizabeth’s face breaks into a sunny smile at the mention of Bingley’s name. She’s happy to learn that he likes her sister as much as she thought he did. Mr. Darcy mirrors her smile. It is hard not to smile when one thinks of Charles Bingley, as he is such an amiable man. 

“We were supposed to be with him at Netherfield this summer,” the young Earl informs her. 

Elizabeth is shocked.“Then we should have met much sooner! How long have you known Mr. Bingley?”

Mr. Darcy explains, “we have been friends since we were all children. Our fathers invested with Bingley’s father. His family would stay at our houses when they came to town.”

“And he writes often of my sister?” she asks hopefully. 

“Yes, apparently he is quite fond of her,” he answers. He looks as if he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. 

She nods her head happily. What he has told her is enough to make her happy for days or even weeks to come. There is a lapse in the conversation as a million happy thoughts race through her head. 

Finally, she reins her thoughts in and asks, “where do you gentlemen usually reside?”

Mr. Darcy proudly announces, ”We split our time between London and Derbyshire. I am the master of Pemberley in Derbyshire and I have a home in London where we have stayed for the season the last three years.”

“Indeed? I have always wanted to travel to Derbyshire! My Aunt Gardiner is originally from the area, from a town called Lambton.” 

“Lambton is very near Pemberley. It is a charming little town,” Mr. Darcy affirms. 

“She and I have always talked about visiting,” Elizabeth tells him. 

“When you do, you must be sure to visit Pemberley,” Lord Fitzwilliam suggests. “It’s the finest house in the country. The grounds are especially beautiful.” 

Elizabeth promises, “I shall be sure to mention it to my aunt the next time I write. We have been planning a trip since I left Hertfordshire.”

“You will not regret it,” he assures her. 

“Perhaps we could arrange to be there, when you and your Aunt arrive to entertain you,” Mr. Darcy offers. ”If not, I can send instructions to allow you use of the rooms. Pemberley’s music room is excellent. I have spent a small fortune there the last few years.” 

“Ah, music! Of course, Darcy. Do you play or sing, Miss Bennet?” the smaller man asks her. 

Elizabeth answers, “I do both, my lord."

“Then this is a fortuitous meeting, for we also play and sing,” Lord Fitzwilliam says, clapping his hands together.

Elizabeth is about to respond, but she hears Lady Catherine calling to them from her carriage. “What are you young people talking about over there?” 

Over his shoulder, the Earl shouts, “I’ve discovered someone else with musical ability, Aunt, and we are trying to figure out how soon she can come to Rosings to play for us.”

Lady Catherine bellows, “why not tomorrow, nephew? We have no pressing engagements."

“That would be fine, Lady Catherine,” they hear Mr. Collins say. 

Waving them to the carriage, Lady Catherine demands “come along now, you two. Anne needs to return home.”

Mr. Darcy bows to her and then inclines his head towards her. “Until tomorrow, Miss Bennet.” 

“Miss Bennet,” Lord Fitzwilliam says, taking her hand into his and drawing it to his lips. 

He walks away, but then he jogs back and asks, “what instrument shall we have prepared for you?” 

“Oh… the pianoforte, My Lord,” she says shyly. 

“Excellent, Miss Bennet. We will make the smartest trio in all of England.” And then he jumps in the carriage and it is pulled away. 

She experiences a void and a draw when they are gone, as if she is being pulled forward to them. Breathlessly, she wishes to call them back and be near them a little longer. Talking with them made her too aware of how long it has been since she has been among friends of her own age. 

The trip to Hunsford had never seemed to offer anything more than peace and quiet. Having just realized that good company waits a half mile away, she aches to have to watch them leave. But the prospect of conversation and music must tide her over until the following day.

Mr. Collins and Mary will spend much of the day at the church taking care of business. They invite her to join them, but she declines and walks back to Hunsford on her own. She spends much of the day on her own as well, because the housekeeper, Mrs. Molly Ross, has the day off. Elizabeth likes Molly a great deal and looks forward to discussing the gentlemen with her. 

The Collinses return to the house around 5pm, nap, eat a cold dinner, and then go to bed again. The evening might have been lonely, but she has the conversation to analyze and the thought of Mr. Bingley returning Jane’s regard. Her thoughts now have so many happy places to alight that the time passes easily. 

Around 8pm, she decides to write Jane at once and tell her she must show Bingley her affection more. In case Mr. Darcy was wrong about Mr. Bingley’s affections, she will not write any more than that. It would not be good to needlessly raise Jane’s hopes. 

The thought of Jane happily ensconced at Netherfield brings her immense pleasure. Then a new thought occurs to her. Perhaps she will not have to be a governess after all. Surely Jane could find some room for her at Netherfield. So perhaps Elizabeth might find some small happiness there too. 

It feels like her spell of bad luck has broken.


	2. Monday, July 26th, 1813

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y’all for the support! It means so much to me.
> 
> I need to issue a friendly warning. As I said last time, this is going to end up with a happy polyamorous triad, three people who are romantically attached to each other. Two of them are men. This is truly an AU. The characters will do, say, and feel things that they wouldn’t in P&P. 
> 
> In case there is confusion, this Fitzwilliam is loosely based on the IRL Earl Fitzwilliam. His primary estate is Wentworth Woodhouse. This is one of the few instances where the title and surname are the same.
> 
> The language here isn’t going to be 100% perfect and I’m sorry. That being said, I still need a beta reader, it turns out, so if you’re interested, please see the end notes for details. Oh, and if you want to contact me, I made a throwaway email: countesswood @ gmail.com Feel free to ask questions.
> 
> TW for this chapter: depictions of the aftermath of child abuse and one brief depiction of an incidence of violence from the past.

Elizabeth wakes with a sinking feeling in her chest. In her dream, she had nothing to wear to dinner. The gentlemen came to Hunsford find out why she had not joined them. They call to her from the courtyard. Hunkered below an open window, bedsheet wrapped around her, she tried to explain. They could not hear her until she leaned out the window. Of course, the sheet had slipped down. She must have died of mortification at that moment in her dream, because she woke gasping. 

After the feeling of the dream fades, the reality she is left with is not much better. When she left home, she brought only a few dresses from Longbourn, expecting to return quickly. Everyone believed her mother would relent and allow her to come home, at least to get her things. She had not. 

As of yet, her mother has barred the family from sending anything to her. Each day, Elizabeth hopes she will relent. Clearly, taking away the clothing is part of her punishment. This is familiar to Elizabeth. In her experience, punishments get worse when you oppose them. When Molly helps her in the mornings, they have such a scant selection to choose from that the young widow has offered to loan her clothes or money. Regrettably, Elizabeth must turn her down, lest her mother be angered.

They now have something more pleasant to discuss than her wardrobe. As Elizabeth details her meeting with the gentlemen, Molly listens in rapt attention before relaying to Elizabeth what she can add about the men.

"They were raised like brothers, even before Mr. Darcy's parents died. Lord Fitzwilliam is usually outgoing and vibrant. Mr. Darcy is always quiet, when he visits without his cousin. But when they are together, they are very merry. They are favorites of the staff, the girls especially," she snickers. 

"Even you?" Elizabeth teases. 

"I am not immune to their charms, but they are both reduced in spirits. The loss hit Lord Fitzwilliam especially hard.”

"He seemed lively and amiable when we met,” Elizabeth informs her, “though recently unaccustomed to speaking much."

“The sight of your pretty face was just what he needed," she jokes, putting a friendly arm around Elizabeth's waist, looking at the closet. "What will you wear tonight?"

One elegant dress, pale green and made of the finest silk, hangs next to the doors. It is more suitable for a ball than dinner, even at a fine house. It was the one thing she would allow her aunt to buy for her in London. She wanted it not because she thought she would wear it, but because she loves to look at it. 

So she hesitates to wear it. However, her next nicest dress is not nice enough by half. Molly suggests she take a risk and wear the lesser dress. She may want to make an impression in the future and the green dress will be her only opportunity, if she refuses to buy more clothes.

Breakfast is brief. After, Mr. Collins and Mary get to their work. For a while, Elizabeth sits out in the garden, as Mary reads aloud and her husband prunes and weeds. When it becomes too warm, Mary goes into the library and reads alone. Mr. Collins has engaged her in a course of theological study, which she attends night and day.

Elizabeth tries to read too, but finds that she cannot concentrate.She tries, but she cannot sit still to do needlework. She thought that she would like the quiet at Rosings, but finds that she is so unused to quiet that it unsettles her. What she wants is conversation. But Mary will give her none and she wants none of what Collins has to offer.

Bored, restless, and feeling unwanted, Elizabeth seeks Molly out and offers her help and company. Molly hands her a broom. Elizabeth tries to help her sweep, but she gets it all wrong, unfamiliar with such tasks. Molly laughs at her affectionately.

"Imagine not knowing how to use a broom," Molly chuckles to herself. "It must be strange to be rich."

"It is. There is much that one cannot do, despite being able bodied."

“How do you sit by a dirty floor without cleaning it?”

She admits, “it is often maddening.” 

Elizabeth watches the woman twirl the mop in arcs across the floor, each movement elegant and spare. When it is time to wet and wring it, she does so with expert efficiency. Though it is a dirty task, there is something beautiful in it when Molly does it. 

“What happened to Mr. Ross?” Elizabeth asks gently, when she pulls her attention from the mopping. Molly looks away for a while. 

“He died at sea two years ago." 

“Oh, Molly, no! I am so sorry to hear that. You are so young,” she condoles with real sadness. 

“I was twenty-one then."

"So you took the place here?"

"At my brother's inn first and then here, when Mr. Collins was hired."

Elizabeth confesses,”I cannot imagine you working at an inn."

"Nor can I, and I did it!" the woman exclaims, laughing. "I am very glad to be here, where it is quiet and still."

When the mopping is done, they prepare lunch. Elizabeth is capable of helping with this task. To avoid her mother's anger, she often hid in the kitchen with Hill, who her mother would not cross. Hill gave the young girl minor jobs like chopping and stirring. As she grew older, she began to bake and cook alongside the staff on occasion. 

After lunch, Molly announces, "I am going to town on an errand and while I am there, I am going to buy some fabric to make you more dresses."

"My mother will be very cross, please, I beg you, do not do anything of the sort."

"Your mother is not here. I will make you the dresses. If you do not wear them, so be it. As your friend, I cannot let this go on," Molly informs her as she leaves.

As she does her hair for the evening, Elizabeth considers defying her mother. She is not new to the concept, but defiance has cost her in the past. Part of her mind screams against it, but another part argues that she should accept the dresses from Molly and even purchase a few items that would greatly improve the quality of her wardrobe. 

By the time her hair is done and her ensemble donned, she has decided to go ahead with the plan. At the least, she will not turn down Molly’s kindness. As much as she frightened by her choice, she looks forwards to seeing what Molly can do. 

All in all, she judges that she looks decent. A colorful shawl adds enough so that while her clothes are not good enough for Rosings, she would not mind wearing them to any house near Longbourn. Her pleased feeling remains until they approach Rosings and Mr. Collins remarks on the plainness of her dress. Meaning to be kind, he tells her not to worry that she has nothing finer, for Lady Catherine will surely not expect more. 

His words cut her a little, but in truth, Elizabeth does not think much about Lady Catherine’s reaction. She cares more what the gentlemen think. If they judge her harshly, it will be of consequence to her. 

Inside Rosings, Lady Catherine sits in a high backed chair, her daughter on the sofa just to her left. She points them to the sofa opposite Miss de Bourgh and the two sit quickly. The furniture is small and Elizabeth does not wish to be crowded, so she sits one seat down from Miss de Bourgh instead. 

Minutes of small talk with Lady Catherine stretch on before she hears a very welcome voice. “Miss Bennet!” Lord Fitzwilliam greets her enthusiastically from the doorway. 

The man is very changed. A kind of buoyant enthusiasm drives him forward, reminding her, in air, rather than appearance, of Mr. Bingley. The bags under his eyes are less dark and his voice less hoarse. Strikingly, his beard is gone, leaving him looking younger than she had judged him to be.

After bowing, Darcy compliments her, “your hair is lovely today. I believe I have seen a similar style on my sister, Georgiana." 

"Thank you. Jane is the one who showed it to me. I am proud to have done it justice on my own." 

To Lord Fitzwilliam she declares, “you are looking well today. But your beard is gone!” 

“Yes, it was time, if I am to be in company. I am feeling very well today. Darcy and I even went out for a walk.” 

“I am glad to hear it. The fresh air seems to have had a great effect on you.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. “And how have you spent your time, since we saw you last?” 

“Oh, I have been very dull. The Collinses were gone most of Sunday. Since there is no instrument at Hunsford, I could find no occupation that pleased me. Mrs. Ross let me pester her this morning, but I should have gone for a walk, as you did. My only obstacle is that I do not know the area.” 

“Ah!” Fitzwilliam exclaims. “We should have asked you to come with us, but we did not want to bother you.” 

"You could not possibly be a bother," she insists. 

“Then we shall count on including you in our plans and be a cozy little party of three,” he proposes with anticipation.

She smiles at him brightly. Even if she had to wear the same dress every time, she would run without embarrassment to Rosings everyday, with such a promise as that on offer. Mr. Darcy starts to speak, but is interrupted by his aunt. She has been watching them conversing at the end of the sofa with growing agitation.

“I hope that we shall have a great deal of music tonight, Darcy. You know that Anne and I are so fond of your playing,” Lady Catherine says. “Come here and discuss with me what pieces you shall choose.”

The rest of the time before dinner passes in conversation with Lady Catherine. When the call to dinner comes, Lord Fitzwilliam jumps up to escort Elizabeth into the dining room, making a show of it, which she cannot help but grin at. The dazzling effect of the candles and lamps in the dining room takes her breath away. Mr. Collins had not exaggerated about the elegance of the settings or the beauty of the furniture.

During the meal, Lord Fitzwilliam converses with her pleasantly on topics of no importance. Despite this, she finds herself drawn in by him. His flashing eyes and ready smile make up for the shallowness of their subject matter. When the conversation veers to any deeper subject, he steers it back to general topics. She wonders at this, but attributes it to his wishing to maintain decorum at the table. 

Thinking on what she has been told about his grief, she is pleased to find him lively. He does not eat enough for a man his age, but he does eat. Judging from sharpness of his cheekbones, she thinks he has eaten very little since his family died. She tries every dish that is set out in front of them and encourages him to try them too. 

"Did Darcy put you up to this?" he asks as he takes a bite of the fish that she said must be tasted. 

"No,” she states in confusion. “I can see on my own that you have not been eating enough.”

He laughs and eats the portion of fish on his plate. "It is good," he concedes. "Food has not tasted so good for many weeks."

While they speak, Mr. Darcy watches and listens, as much as he is able to without his aunt noticing. But he is soon drawn into their conversation. On the other side of him, Miss de Bourgh is forgotten, but seems not to mind. Lady Catherine, however, watches them carefully, ignoring Mr. Collins every attempt to engage her in conversation. 

As her nephew continues to ignore her daughter, Lady Catherine stares at Elizabeth with mounting contempt. She has been appraised and been found wanting. Elizabeth wonders how she has offended the woman, beyond distracting her nephew, or if that is enough to create the scowl that pinches her features. 

“Your dress is very plain, Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine accuses. 

“It is, ma’am,” Elizabeth answers. “Mr. Collins assured me that you would not be bothered.”

Lady Catherine scowls at her. “In my family, we attend to these details. You can see that those of us descended from the noble house of Fitzwilliam dress with great care.”

Elizabeth looks around the table to confirm that each of them is indeed dressed elegantly. She has never seen more money spent on fine silks and dining jackets. Lord Fitzwilliam rolls his eyes at his aunt’s words and smiles at her reassuringly. 

Feeling that she has his support, at least, she refuses to feel bad for her clothing.“No one can argue that you all have taste and the money to execute it. It is an admirable family trait,” Elizabeth compliments. She hopes it will be the end of it. 

It is not. Lady Catherine continues, “does your father lack money to spend on your clothes? Or does he lack the desire to see his daughters properly dressed? Mrs. Collins is a plain dresser, though I had attributed that to her plain personality. You seem like a rather lively sort of girl. Why are you not fully dressed for dinner?” 

Elizabeth sighs. She finds herself not embarrassed or cowed, but mad. A kind person would never have mentioned her clothes in the first place. She looks to Lord Fitzwilliam, who gives her a grim smile, which she which she reads as continuing support, so she answers more boldly than she knows she should. 

“I did not dress fully because my trunks have not arrived, ma’am,” Elizabeth lies. 

Lady Catherine starts to respond, but Elizabeth is not finished. She continues, “my sister builds her riches in Heaven. I am certain that she would dress plainly whether she had 50 pounds to spend on clothes or 500.” She looks fondly at Mary, who appears to be feeling the mortification that Elizabeth does not. 

Continuing, much to the surprise of Lady Catherine, she argues, “I would not call her personality plain, though it takes time to appreciate.” Elizabeth smiles at Mary to reassure her. “She is intelligent, devout, and accomplished. There is much to admire in her.” 

Lord Fitzwilliam claps and proclaims, “hear, hear, well said. We all have much to learn from Mrs. Collins.” 

Mr. Collins is astounded at his wife being praised at the dinner table of Rosings so soon after being critiqued. He can only nod aggressively in response to Lord Fitzwilliam, too frightened to voice any sentiment against Lady Catherine. Mary shrinks further into her chair. 

Mr. Darcy raises his glass and toasts, “to the bonds of sibling affection.” Under the table, Lord Fitzwilliam reaches out and gives Elizabeth a quick pat on her wrist. Unfortunately, their defense of the Bennet sisters vexes Lady Catherine further. She huffs as she raises her glass and cannot let the matter die. 

“You are a peculiar sort of girl. You give your opinions rather freely for one so young,” she accuses. 

Elizabeth takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself. She speaks quietly, but with great feeling, “when we are insulted, I feel I can do little else. We are poor, compared to you, but that does not make us unfeeling.” 

Lady Catherine gapes at her. Lord Fitzwilliam stifles a laugh. Mary looks away, while Mr. Collins is entirely unsure of what to do with himself. He looks hopelessly between his wife and the woman who pays for their living. Mr. Darcy does not dare do anything at all, it seems, lest he reignite the conflict.

The rest of dinner is much quieter than the first part. Dessert is practically silent. Elizabeth is almost glad of the awkward silence, for it allows her to enjoy the tart and focus on the flavors without discussion distracting her. The thought that she should not have opposed Lady Catherine occurs to her occasionally, but she does not let the sentiment overtake her.

Mary pretends to be calm. Mr. Collins whispers to her, but she will not answer at first. Gradually, Elizabeth is glad to see, he draws her out. He is not one of Elizabeth’s favorite people, due to his personality and the drastic changes he inadvertently wrought in her life, but he is a good choice for Mary. 

It is a great relief when the meal is over. Lady Catherine announces that she will retire to her rooms and bids them a cold goodnight. Elizabeth sighs in relief as the old woman leaves.

They find the sitting room occupied by a woman who did not dine with them. She is introduced as Mrs. Peele, Anne’s newest companion. After greeting Elizabeth, the woman takes her charge to the sofa, where they occupy themselves with sewing. To her surprise, Mrs. Peele commences with a steady stream of gossip, to which the younger woman responds with enthusiasm. 

Her new friends motion Elizabeth over to the fireplace, where they stand. They point her to a seat, but she declines, wanting to stretch her legs and calm down after the awkward dinner. 

To her surprise, quiet Mr. Darcy speaks first. “Miss Bennet,” he begins, "before we play, please allow me to apologize for my aunt’s behavior. It was rude of her to remark on your clothing. I fear I am to blame for her outburst.” 

“How, Mr. Darcy? You can have no blame,” she insists. 

In fact, the blame lies mostly with Mrs. Bennet, for sending her daughter off with no good clothes. Elizabeth assigns a part of it to herself, because she did not bring better dresses with her as she left Longbourn. 

Gravely, he answers, “I ignored Anne, which I know upsets my aunt. When I neglect her to attend to another, Lady Catherine is often angered. I could have saved you and your sister some pain by attending my cousin.”

Because she cannot see the match as suiting either of them, she asks, “does Miss de Bourgh desire the engagement?” 

“She does not. I think Anne is content with her various companions, for the moment.” 

They glance over at her and see that Miss de Bourgh and her companion giggle a great deal. The transformation in the young woman surprises her. From seeming sour and ill, she is now happy and talkative. The only difference seems to be that her mother has gone to bed. Elizabeth can relate to that.

“Anne has little interest in or need of marriage, though she has a suitor. Yet Lady Catherine will not quit the idea. We have told her, but she will not relent.” 

Elizabeth sympathizes, “I understand. My own mother is often unreasonable. Though I suppose if she were reasonable, I would not have met the two of you until later.”

“How so?” the smaller man asks. 

Elizabeth does not want to say anything more, for fear of exposing too much too soon, but she must give some reply. “Mama and I had a disagreement and it is best for me to leave home for a while.” It is hard to keep the shame from her voice, though she tries. 

“Ah,” Lord Fitzwilliam intones. “I had a disagreement with my own father, Miss Bennet, and was disowned entirely. Do not need to be ashamed.” He looks at his tall cousin solemnly, then turns back to her. 

He offers, “we can talk of it later when we are better acquainted.” She is relieved, both that he understands her and that she does not have to talk about her mother now. 

“If you are still upset by my aunt's words, we can play a round of cards before we take up our instruments,” Mr. Darcy suggests kindly, changing the subject. 

“I never play cards when I can help it,” Elizabeth admits. 

“Is it a moral objection?”

“No,” she laughs, “I am not like my sister. Conversation is a more pleasurable way to pass an evening, in my opinion. If there is none to be had, I prefer to read a book or walk. I am afraid I’m rather dull.”

“That does not sound dull,” Lord Fitzwilliam assures her. “But what are your feelings on music?” 

“It is the equal of conversation and superior to every other kind of entertainment."

“Then shall we go ahead and play?” Mr. Darcy proposes. 

“Yes, I think that I am sufficiently calm after dinner.”

With the curtains open, permitting the last of the summer sunlight to flood the room, the music room is bright. There is no need for candles or lamps at the moment, though there are some placed near all of the music stands that she sees. 

“All of the music that we have in three parts is on this table. Choose from them or let us know if there is something else that you would rather play,” Mr. Darcy tells her, before leaving her to it. 

Sheet upon sheet of printed and handwritten music is arrayed on a table, so that she may choose as she likes. There is a smaller table next to the grand piano with an oil lamp to shed light on her sheet music, a glass and a decanter of water, and even a small pen and inkwell, for if she wants to make notes, she supposes. Everything has been thought of. 

Lord Fitzwilliam sees her surveying the room and observes in a fond tone that she cannot read, “Darcy set up everything for you just so.”

“Thank you. I thought you a bit stern when we met, but now you hardly seem so now.”

A touch of red in his cheeks, Mr. Darcy replies, “you are welcome. I have not the talent of conversing with strangers easily, as Fitz does. I fumble and say the wrong thing, offending without meaning to.”

“You have been kindness itself, sir, just quiet, I see now,” she replies. Despite his stony demeanor, he has been courteous and obliging. 

“Now tell us which song we are to play first,” he requests, again seeming slightly stern. She chuckles, because she sees part of his apparent severity is his directness, a trait she admires.

The impressive collection of printed and handwritten sheet music represents a good variety of composers and types of music. It pleases her. Some she is unfamiliar with and some might even be original compositions, for they have no titles and are handwritten.

“I thought that we could start with something easy, if you are willing to take pity on me,” she remarks with a lack of self confidence that does not suit her abilities. 

Sweetly, Lord Fitzwilliam rejoins, “we are happy to play whatever it is that you chose.” 

“Für Elise, to start,” she ventures, handing the music to him. 

He takes it, his hand inadvertently bumping hers. An electric feeling races in an instant from her hand to her heart, which lurches to new life, every beat of the organ making her mind race and her skin pulse with sensation. She walks past him and sits at the piano, trying to keep the reaction under wraps, willing everything to return to normal. 

She runs through the scales and finds the instrument is uncommonly smooth as her fingers roll down the keyboard. The sound and feeling do not quite distract her from the burgeoning feeling of something sweet and needful kindled within her, but she can focus. When Fitzwilliam has readied his violin and Mr. Darcy his cello, she must begin the song, setting the pace and tone. She counts down without looking at Lord Fitzwilliam again, lest her heart resume its strange activity.

They all play well, but the play through lacks cohesion. Still, when the song is done, Mr. Collins is on his feet, praising their talents. He starts to join them in the music room, but Mr. Darcy ignores him and gives a critique of the performance. Thus ignored, the obsequious man shrinks away.

“We each performed well, but we lacked uniformity and harmony. There was a great deal of passion. However, I think that we can play with passion and synchronicity,” he contends, accurately assessing the situation in Elizabeth’s mind. 

They begin again. This time, he taps out their tempo and acts as a de facto conductor. His efforts help her. Though he would not say so, Elizabeth realizes it was her fault that the first attempt failed. This time, they play with both passion and cohesion and are all three very pleased with it. 

Their impromptu maestro praises her, “that was well done. You played the piano beautifully, as well as Fitz does, when he wants.”

“Your playing was also a treat. I think it was different the second time. Were you improvising?” she asks with curiosity. 

“He was showing off,” Lord Fitzwilliam ribs.

Elizabeth compliments, “whatever it was, it was to your credit.” 

“Thank you. What shall we play next?” 

She looks the music over again, before selecting Bach's Piano Concerto no.1 in D Minor. To her surprise, Mr. Darcy sets his cello aside and takes up a violin, asking for a moment to warm up.

She sits down and re-familiarizes herself with the work. She has played it many times, but not recently. One of her piano masters was excessively fond of Bach and made her master his piano works. It had been tough year for her, but it made her a better player.

The play through goes well through the first part, but Lord Fitzwilliam begins to falter a few pages in and they stop. He laughs good-naturedly and apologizes, saying that his hand cramped. He tries to massage the muscle with his other hand, but the more he tries, the more he grimaces. 

Mr. Darcy sets his violin down, before taking the smaller hand in his own and carefully examining it. He probes the muscles of the palm delicately with his fingertips. 

“We did not warm up enough and you have hardly been playing. Perhaps this is too much to start off with,” he comments gently. 

Elizabeth watches, entranced by the soft tone of Mr. Darcy’s voice and by the skill with which he massages the cramp away. The pain fades from the man’s face and he is soon smiling again. The act transfixes her, as she cannot recall seeing one man treat another in this way. No bravado or posturing attends the gesture. It makes her heart start acting up all over again. 

Nervously, Lord Fitzwilliam pulls his hand away from Mr. Darcy and explains, “he always takes good care of me.” She is uncertain where the anxiety comes from, but attributes it to his interrupting their play through.

“We can wait to play more. Your hand will be stronger tomorrow for having played today,” she assures, smiling at him to let him know that she is not upset. 

What they have played suffices for her for the night. Her own fingers are a little sore. She would like to ask Mr. Darcy to massage them too, but that is an irrational thought that she keeps to herself. 

“No, let us continue,” he insists. “I would like to finish it.” 

Elizabeth nods at him and they retake their instruments. They play well, Lord Fitzwilliam having recovered from his cramp. Unintentionally, she lets her mind stray, searching for the last time that she had played this song. She cannot recall at first, but then it comes to her with haunting clarity. 

She and Mr. Calloway, the piano master, played a duet, his way of showing her how well she had mastered a piece. Everything was going splendidly, until her mother came downstairs, her head aching. Taking up a fire poker, Mama had smashed Elizabeth's piano to pieces. This drove Mr. Calloway not only from Longbourn, but from the county entirely. The only explanation the woman would give was that the noise was driving her to distraction.

At the memory, her breath catches in her throat. Only now, she realizes her mother had made a game of taking everything good from her. After the piano, it had been a friend, the family pet, and a servant who was kind to her. Eventually, Elizabeth had learned not to express her preference for anything in front of the woman who should have been intimately acquainted with her thoughts. 

How very lonely she was, even then. Instead of getting better, as she hoped after each instance of abuse, her mother ultimately took even Longbourn from her. It occurs to her for the first time that her clothes are probably lost to her entirely. A sick feeling blossoms in her stomach and tears leap to her eyes. She fights them off and refocuses. Her mother cannot be allowed to win. 

When the song ends, Mr. Darcy hands her a handkerchief. His cousin stands behind him with another. The gestures are so sweet and earnest that she smiles. She takes the offered square and dabs her eyes with it. She did not cry. She will not cry over her mother. She tries to return it, but he gestures that she should keep it.

Calmly, she apologizes, “that was beautifully played, but I think I am done for the night."

“Of course, Miss Bennet. My hand hurts too much to play anymore. Let us have a drink. That should help us both out,” Lord Fitzwilliam insists. 

She is not used to being tended to when she is upset, unless Jane is at hand. The man's solicitous demeanor astounds her as he guides her to the sofa and goes to get her a drink. She has seen other people treated this way, but in company she is more often raged at or ignored than she is the object of kindness. 

Mr. Darcy carefully puts their instruments away before turning his attention back to his companions. By that time, Lord Fitzwilliam has poured three glasses of wine. His fingers do not brush against hers as he hands over the glass and she is disappointed. 

She sips at the liquid, though she wants to gulp it down. Mr. Collins can see them, though he is absorbed in speaking to Mary, and she is certain that he would not approve. She is pushing it by having the drink. 

"No need to stand on propriety,” the man insists. "You are upset. This will fortify you. Drink up!”

She cannot defy a peer of the realm, so she drinks steadily. “There’s a good girl,” she hears him praise. “You will feel well in no time.” 

He is right, she feels warmth and happiness suffusing through her. It is possible that the feeling has more to do with her companions than the wine, but she does not care what the source is. 

“Thank you, My Lord." 

“I am not sure I shall get used to being called that,” he laughs. “Call me Fitzwilliam, if you would be so kind.”

Much about him is strange in a way that she finds intriguing. The only people she knows who possess titles are keen on observing every formality. Yet he tosses his title aside easily.

He looks at her glass. “Would you like another?”

“Yes, please, Fitzwilliam,” she answers. He smiles at her, as if to say, ‘see, it is better this way’ and pours them both another. 

Mr. Darcy urges her, "tell us about your sister. We shall travel to Hertfordshire soon to stay with Charles and we will all be friends. I am sure.”

She happily tells them all about Jane. Her elder sister is her favorite subject and she is gratified that they laugh more than most people at the stories of how Jane’s goodness had gotten her into scrapes as a child. Several times, she hears them exclaim that they cannot wait to meet her, which moves them up a rank in her esteem.

From there, she shares her own childhood antics, though she avoids anything that might touch upon the subject of her mother. After a while, she feels she is dominating the conversation and asks them about their youthful pranks. Fitz recounts the time when he had forced an eight-year-old Mr. Darcy to steal a horse and they had gotten lost. The story has her laughing so forcefully that she stifles the sound with her hand.  
More than an hour passes in this manner and the three of them are very diverted. Mr. Darcy, speaking on a subject of which he is knowledgable and interested in rivals his cousin in charm and eloquence. With the exception of a few hitches, the evening has turned as she hoped it would. 

There is no trouble until Elizabeth sees a piece of lint on her dress. Her attention draws Fitzwilliam’s. Before she can stop him, he plucks it from the part of her dress that sits at mid thigh. She blushes and Mr. Darcy clears his throat in warning, but it is too late. Mr. Collins saw the exchange. 

An angry, disappointed look steals over the clergyman’s face. He stands, cutting off Mary mid-sentence. 

“Dearest wife, I am more tired than I realized. We should go,” he claims loudly.

“As you wish, Mr. Collins,” she replies with confusion. 

Fitzwilliam is on his feet in a snap, going to Collins, using charm to gloss over the minor impropriety. “Must you leave? You can stay another hour! We are hearing about the Bennet sisters. Come tell us a story. You spent a few weeks at Longbourn. Since Charles is to propose to Miss Bennet, we shall be like family.” 

“Fitzwilliam, is it true?” Elizabeth enquires, her hands on his arm. 

“He was not supposed to say anything,” Mr. Darcy reminds with fond exasperation. “We had a letter from Bingley this morning requesting our opinion about proposing.” 

Mr. Collins seems torn, but then he looks at Elizabeth touching the man's arm. That seems to decide him. She pulls her hands away, but his mind is set. 

“I am afraid we must go, My Lord,” Collins declares, more harshly than he ever speaks to anyone in a station above his. “Say goodbye, Elizabeth.” She could argue, as he has no right to order her around, but she opts for the easiest route.  

“Goodbye,” she bids sunnily. “Thank you for this news.”

With a bit of disappointment, Fitzwilliam tells her, “I enjoyed playing with you tonight.”

“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy bids her goodbye fondly, with a bow. 

“I shall see you soon, I hope.” 

Fitzwilliam promises, smiling brightly, “very soon.” 

She walks away happily, even knowing that she is going to be reprimanded for Fitzwilliam's innocent touch. It is of little consequence, because her enjoyment of the evening and the news of Jane’s upcoming engagement has put her beyond anyone’s ability to upset. 

True to form, Mr. Collins does lecture her on propriety and decorum, in a way that makes it clear that he thinks she has had no such instruction before. The gist is that Elizabeth should be more ladylike and she must not let the gentlemen touch her. This bothers her, because she had not let him do it. He had acted before she could stop him. Even so, no harm had been meant by it.

"It was innocent, sir. There was a bit of lint on my dress. You have said yourself that he has been unused to company. He forgot himself, meaning to do something kind, I am certain."

"That may be the case, but I warn you that he was something of a black sheep in the family, before the unfortunate accident. Lady Catherine has shown him every kindness, of course, but his father had objections to him of a serious nature," Collins divulges. 

"My own mother seriously objects to me.” 

Mr. Collins’ face falls and she almost feels bad about saying it. He is sorry for what happened to her and feels to blame for it. It is the reason he has said that she may stay in his house as long as she needs. 

He nods his head, for once dropping his clergyman exterior and speaking to her as someone who is fond of her, "we cannot know if he was falsely maligned. I understand that, Elizabeth. But please, for your sake and for the rest of our family, guard yourself." 

Then the mask returns and he continues to lecture her as he would any one else. "They show you attention, which is very flattering. Yet everything you say to them should be proper. You must make no demands to see them, as you did today. If they come to call at Hunsford every few days, so be it. We may even be invited to dine at Rosings more often. You must not ask for these things though.”

He seems to get excited by the prospect of more frequent contact, which amuses her. His next remarks do not, as he surmises the women they know are superior to Elizabeth in charm, talent, and wealth. Their interest in her, likely results from a lack of suitable female company. He surmises that when Lord Fitzwilliam recovers, they will return to the city. Though she knows him to be wrong on the last count, she is stung by his words.

He admonishes, "I heard you address the Earl Fitzwilliam without his title and you must stop. If you do wish to try to ingratiate yourself with him in some small way, you must impress upon him your respect and reverence for his title. That is how the nobility prefer to be treated. Always address him as My Lord, Lord Fitzwilliam, or Sir."

Forcing herself to unclench her teeth, she indicates, "I am aware of the proper etiquette, brother-in-law. My Lord requested that I speak to him in a familiar manner." 

She turns away from him and practices the deception she learned to use on her mother. "I did not know what to do. I did not want to displease him, but I wanted to be proper.”

Mr. Collins expression shifts to sympathy. “Poor girl! That must have been difficult for you to decide what to do. Let me advise you to stick to your inclination. If you do, he will come to see you as a respectable woman, which can only benefit you."

"He said that the title sits heavy on him. I thought that it might comfort him to be addressed as he wished.”

"Oh, you are compassion itself. Forgive me for suspecting anything else of you in this matter," he comments fondly. 

Then, he reminds her, "my advice stands. Be careful."

She thanks him for his consideration, because if she argues, she will have to stay and be lectured. By agreeing, she is allowed to leave his study and make her way to the kitchen. She hopes Molly is awake, but the kitchen is dark and there is no light from underneath the woman's door. 

Left to her thoughts, a jumble of music, emotions, Jane, and the future, she climbs the stairs and readies for bed. Most of her contemplations are happy. The altercation with Lady Catherine no longer bothers her, after the time spent with her nephews. 

Only one thing that Mr. Collins has said upsets her. He may be right about the kind of women that they are used to spending time with. With her sparse wardrobe, her country manners, and her lack of support from home, it is hard to see how she could compete.

She wishes Jane could advise her, that they might talk all night about everything. As she begins to fall asleep, she hears her sister’s voice reminding her that friendships are not based on wardrobe, competition, or a series of compliments, as Collins thinks. With a smile, Elizabeth remembers that so far, her manner and lack of money have not bothered her new friends one whit.


	3. Tuesday, July 27th, 1813

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y’all for the kudos! I'm still looking for a new beta, although my first one is still helping me out until another person volunteers. Basically, I need someone to read through my draft ask me questions and point out when things don't make sense or need more. If you think you could do that, I'd love to have the help. 
> 
> TW in this chapter for Elizabeth's description of an incidence of abuse.

At 10 o’clock, the sisters are sitting in Mary’s day room doing needlework, when they hear a knock on the front door. Moments later, Mr. Collins joins them, followed by Lord Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth has anticipated them all morning, with growing excitement, and wonders at herself for feeling as giddy as one of her younger sisters. The men wear shooting jackets, rather than dress coats, and she hopes they plan to do something out of doors. 

Pleased and surprised to find them in his home, Mr. Collins behaves in an exceedingly awkward manner. He first stands with the men, then thinks better of it and sits in a chair. Finally, after a word from Mary, he settles next to her on the sofa and invites the gentlemen to sit. 

"Thank you," Fitzwilliam answers, "but we came to invite you all out for a walk."

Regretfully, Mr. Collins tells him, "Mary and I are going out to visit the sick later.”

Elizabeth puts her needlework away. "I would love a walk."

Mr. Collins looks as if he wants to object, but he keeps his tongue perhaps remembering their discussion of the night before. Still, he follows them out into the courtyard and questions Mr. Darcy about their route. With forbearance, the gentleman outlines their itinerary, a walk of less than three miles that will take them to a local scenic spot. As long as it is picturesque, it is bound to please her. She has gone no further than the area around Hunsford since arriving. 

Their journey takes them towards Rosings before heading northward. As they walk, she cannot find a comfortable way to carry the bag Molly gave her as they left. She shifts it for the third time in as many minutes. Without warning, Mr. Darcy seizes it and tucks it into the crook of his arm. 

"Thank you, Darcy," she says before realizing her error. "I am sorry, my mistake," she says quickly. 

"Do not trouble yourself. Perhaps if you are to call him Fitzwilliam, you might also like to call me Darcy," he offers, looking off into the distance, "to make things simpler."

"If it will make things simpler, then I suppose I must," she quips. 

They do not talk much after that, though they try to, because the road is busy and they must continually break apart. Splitting off onto a footpath is a welcome change. It is a narrow way, so it is not much easier to speak, but at least they are not crowded or constantly separated.

After a while, they reach a small river, which Darcy leads them along before veering into a valley. Here, the journey grows difficult. The only cleared path resembles an oversized set of steep and uneven stone steps covered in loose rocks and tree roots. They tell her it is called the Giants' Staircase by locals. The steps range from a few inches to several feet tall. 

They seem comfortable with the idea of climbing down it, but it looks dangerous to her. Adding to that feeling, for a brief moment as she begins the descent, she has the distinct sensation of being watched. She looks all around. The hill is almost entirely covered in trees, bushes, and large boulders. Even though her vantage point is good, she cannot see who might be watching them. The feeling passes and then all her attention is taken up in getting down the hill. 

Strange sensations aside, her fears about the descent were not wholly misplaced. Ahead of her, Darcy navigates the way with ease. Yet she trips several times, unused to this kind of terrain. The last time she stumbles, Fitzwilliam grasps her hand and keeps her from falling. 

He calls out, “Darcy, we are being rude. Miss Bennet needs assistance. Mr. Collins will keep her locked up at Hunsford, if we let her get hurt.”

Darcy apologizes and bounds back up the incline to wait just below her. With a look of serene patience, he holds his hands up to her. When she takes them, she finds he is stronger than she expected. He does not budge when he briefly bears her weight as she jumps down. 

As they descend, sometimes she can manage on her own. Quite often though, Fitzwilliam must hold her hand, anchoring her as she moves down. Several times, Darcy stands just off the path, so that she can use his shoulder to steady herself on rocks that shift beneath her. Whatever is necessary, they do. 

Her fear fades as it becomes clear they will not let her fall. Then it feels like a game. She finds it most enjoyable when the way is so rough that they must both hold her hands. For a moment, the three of them are connected. These small interactions make her smile excessively, though she is not sure why. 

About halfway down the hill, the path gets a little easier and she can safely proceed on her own. Yet both men continue to reach out to steady her, even though she no longer requires help. Whether they do it out of affection or concern, she is happy. The next time he offers his hand, she takes it. 

The very last obstacle before the bottom of the hill is a drop too large to jump down. Darcy shows her one way to proceed, lowering himself onto his belly and dropping down over the edge. He does it deftly, but it looks daunting to her.

"I do not think I can do that," she admits. 

“No matter, Georgiana cannot ever do it either. Sit here.” He points to a spot on the edge of the rock face. “I will do the rest.” 

She sits carefully, eager not to fall. When she is settled, he reaches up and takes hold of her waist. Instinctively, she puts her hands on his shoulders and leans forward. Without warning, he lifts her up. For a brief and thrilling moment, she is in his arms. Then she is safely on the ground again, the valley opened out in front of her. 

The air is full of an intense rushing sound. She is about to head off to search it out, but she realizes they are not with her. She looks back just in time to see Darcy lowering Fitz to the ground, as he had done with her. But Darcy does not release the other man. His hands linger at his waist and he leans in and whispers something to him. Elizabeth blushes and looks away, uncertain of what to think. Yet, she finds herself turning to look again. 

Fitzwilliam leans back against the rock and pulls Darcy towards him. Both horrified and intrigued, she thinks they are about to kiss. Then both men start to giggle and they break apart.It must be something of a joke between them all. It occurs to her that this whole walk is something they do with Georgiana. He said she could not climb down either. The though was silly. It would be unwise to allow her imagination to run wild in that way, no matter how inexplicably fascinating the idea is. 

They join her and together trace the mysterious sound around a series of bends in the path. Their efforts are finally rewarded, as the sight of a waterfall coursing over a cliff greets them. Wherever she looks, sunlight catches the mist from the torrent, creating shards of rainbow light. Several cypress trees stretch high into the air along the banks of the river and the prisms reach even to their highest branches. 

Sighing in delight, she declares, “thank you for bringing me here. It is just the thing I have been needing.” She is not certain why looking at such scenes bring her so much joy, but she finds life without them dull. 

At the only bit of shady ground near the bank, the men take off their jackets and spread out a blanket. She feels overly warm, despite the relieving effect of the waterfall's spray. Eager to cool off, she joins Fitzwilliam on the blanket. 

"Do you often bring Miss Darcy here?"

Darcy smiles at the mention of his sister. "Every year at Easter, we do a tour of Rosings, with a detour to the waterfall. Sometimes we come more often." 

"Usually we bring along something to drink," Fitzwilliam complains. "We should have planned better."

“You may be in luck. Let us see what Molly sent," she suggests. Happily, the bag holds a loaf of bread with cheese baked into the top and two bottles of beer.

She hands a bottle to Fitzwilliam and offers one to Darcy, but since she has no other, he shares with his cousin. They toast to Molly and her excellent thinking. Elizabeth assures them that she will appreciate the gesture. 

After they have eaten and Darcy has drained the other half of the beer she did not finish, Fitzwilliam announces he is still too hot and that he will wade in the shallow water. Without making any suggestion to her about what she should do, he and Darcy unlace their boots and make quick work of getting their feet wet. 

For a while, she is content to watch them as they stand in the river, talking and smiling. But the water looks increasingly enticing. And the conversation that they are having appears to be diverting. From where she sits, she can dip her hand in the water if she stretches out. However, that is not enough. She longs to join them. 

The only impediment to her wishes is that removing her shoes would cross a line. To take them off in front of them for no reason other than the pleasure of dipping her feet into clear, cool water is prohibited. They might see such an act as highly improper. Her instincts tell her that they will not, but her instincts have been wrong before. She watches them while she decides and quickly her fear of missing the experience supersedes her fear of acting improperly and she begins to unlace her boots. 

Before she can join them, Fitzwilliam spots some fish and begins to chase them about the creek bed, trying to catch them. She thinks that he will not succeed. Yet after a minute or so, he throws his clasped hands in the air triumphantly and announces he has caught a minnow. The fish is promptly released it back into the water. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she slips her enters the water from where she sits.

As he stands back up, Fitzwilliam loses his balance. Darcy catches him in a flash, grabbing him by the waist and setting him right. He smoothes Fitzwilliam’s vest and pats him on the arms. 

He teases the other man, “you should be more careful, My Lord." She detects something in his tone, at once tender and fierce that makes her ache in a way she does not understand.

Then he sees her and he cries out, with an edge of alarm and a nervous laugh, “Miss Bennet! You have joined us. Hold onto Fitz so that he will not fall again.” 

She reaches out to take Fitzwilliam's arm, but he grabs her hand instead. His fingers lace through hers for additional support. She is sure it has nothing to do with how nice it feels. Her heart thrills at the contact nonetheless. Equally thrilling is that neither man is making anything of her being shoeless. No one acts as if it is anything out of the ordinary to see a gentlewoman without shoes. It is accepted, as everything else about her has been accepted so far. 

They make their way down the bed of the waterway and she is quiet and content with the sights and their presence. However, Fitzwilliam is feeling playful. After a few minutes, he lets her hand go. As stealthily as he can, he sneaks up on Darcy, aiming to splash him, she thinks. But the taller man notices and splashes him first, startling Fitzwilliam, who laughs and sputters.

And he is caught entirely off guard when Elizabeth follows up with a splash from behind. Darcy roars in laughter as Fitzwilliam tries to splash her in retaliation and misses. She jumps up onto the bank to get away, laughing exuberantly the whole time. He promises he will repay her for it. She howls in laughter and dares him to try. 

There is a faint, but unmistakable peal of thunder in the distance, which instantly calms their mood. They cannot see the storm it comes from. Warmth still radiates from the sunny sky. Still, they return to the blanket to let their feet dry, in case something comes their way. 

Fitzwilliam stretches out, taking up the whole right side of the thick quilt. Darcy leans against a sloping tree, accentuating the lean outline of his body. She finds herself staring. Usually, his jacket obscures his torso. Without it, she discovers he is a little more muscular than she had realized, which explains the strength he displayed on the way down the hill. 

Seeming not to notice her attention, Darcy remarks with concern, “I hope Mr. Collins did not reprimand you too cruelly last night.” 

“It was not harsh. If you have read Fordyce's Sermons, you are acquainted with the lecture's content. I am advised to guard myself, refrain from any touching, and behave in a more ladylike manner.” She laughs at herself, because she has failed on all those counts. 

Fitzwilliam frowns. “All because I picked the lint from your dress? I apologize. There was no ill intent.”

“Being both a clergyman and my brother-in-law, he is anxious that I not overstep any boundaries. I do not take what he says seriously. For example, he assured me you would not call at Hunsford for days."

“And yet we showed, because you expected us.”

“I am not sure what his idea of friendship is, because he told me I should ask for and expect nothing at all from you.”

Darcy exclaims, “you said he did not speak harshly! While we should not make demands of each other, I think we owe to each other what new friends owe: mutual admiration, respect, and to begin to look after each other’s interests.”

“That is all I hope for. I had no idea of wanting anything more.” 

"Perhaps if we were not destined to be friends, by virtue of Bingley's choice of your sister, he would be correct. But there is no reason to act with needless restraint. Bingley is family and soon your sister will be too." 

The sounds of thunder creep closer and closer to them with every passing minute, increasing in intensity and rate. The wind has also begun to blow more spray from the waterfall into the air. It is not helping their feet dry. They cannot stay much longer.

Fitzwilliam grins at her, but then an idea strikes him. “What other stupid opinions did Mr. Collins express?”

“I am not sure I want to repeat what he said.” 

“But you must allow me to correct any wrong impression he gave you.”

In a small voice, she tells them, "he warned me the women you know are superior to me in ‘charm, talent, and wealth.' Your attention to me, he is sure, results only from your lack of suitable friends.” She braces herself for him to tell her Collins is right. 

Fitzwilliam swears and remarks, “it was rude of him to say that. Do not think that he expresses my feelings in this matter. I have 11,000 a year. I do not need your connections to enrich me. I may choose my friends as I like, on their other merits.”

“11,000?” Elizabeth asks in astonishment. “How can you spend so much?”

“We cannot! Darcy has 9,000 a year and we have never spent it all. A sensible person cannot do it. And now we have a combined income of 20,000.” 

"I cannot imagine it."

"Truthfully, neither can I. We have not spent even 50 pounds since May."

"You will never catch up now!" she exclaims in mock horror. 

Fitzwilliam smiles at her as if she is delightful. "See, Mr. Collins need not worry himself that you do not charm us. I do not think that you can help doing it. When you laughed aloud in church, I felt mirth bubble up in me, a feeling I thought had left me entirely. Then at dinner last night, you coaxed me into eating as I have not eaten in months, which must have endeared you to Darcy. To my amazement and delight, you were even so bold as to talk back to my aunt. I could not have been more charmed in such a short time.”

“I am glad I amused you,” Elizabeth says cheekily.

“It is more than amusement. I slept all night last night. Do you know what I dreamed of?”

She quips, “your luxurious surroundings and freedom from financial concerns?”

“Ha! No, of this walk and it was as pleasant as it is now. No one drowned, I saw not one broken ship washing ashore, and there were no burials. It was my first night of peace since May.”

She does not believe that this could be true. "I am flattered that you attribute this change to me, but I cannot be responsible. You went for a walk and the exertion helped you. I'm sure that with the exertion today, you can look forward to the same tonight.”

“I do look forward to it, but I will attribute it to you." 

Directly overhead, though there is no cloud above them, comes the loudest peal of thunder yet. It frightens them all with its nearness and they put their shoes back on without having to say anything to each other. She is glad of the distraction from the conversation, because she does not know what to make of the Earl's declarations. 

"We cannot go back the way we came in the rain, can we?" she asks, not relishing the idea. 

Darcy shakes his head. "But there is another way that will take us around the valley." Thunder crashes overhead again as he speaks and he turns to lead them to shelter without another word. 

Just after they leave the waterfall, the rain begins. Over the noise of the rain and thunder, Darcy shouts there is a farm nearby. Seeing her beginning to get wet, he unfolds the blanket and places it around her shoulders. Then he reaches up and tugs lightly on one of the ribbons for her bonnet. The satin unfurls easily. 

He whispers, “we must keep you dry and warm.”

Carefully, he then takes the bonnet from her head and places it in the bag. He repositions the blanket over her head and tucks it tightly around her. Her chest above her heart hums with warmth and hope. She wants to say something, to acknowledge this feeling somehow, but he turns and walks away. They must head to shelter.

They move as swiftly as they dare along the footpath. But once they reach the rain-slicked road, they slow. Occasionally, either Fitzwilliam or Darcy them will reach out and ensure that Elizabeth is fine and well covered by the blanket. She smiles against the rain at their thoughtfulness.

They reach the farmhouse, but find it unoccupied and its doors barred. Next, they try the barn. Although it is drafty and has a leaking roof, it is dryer than the rain. There is not much inside other than a small stool, which Elizabeth sits on, and a musty old livestock blanket, which Fitzwilliam spreads out on. He seems determined to finish the lounging that had been interrupted at the waterfall. Darcy looks out on the rain from the doorway. He looks stern again and she waits for him to reveal what he is truly thinking. 

With a scowl, he tells her, "I wish that there was something we could do to help you." 

"You have helped me. Your friendship is enough."

"But is there something that could be done for you, in the situation with your mother? Are the conditions of your banishment negotiable?" he asks earnestly. 

She would rather not discuss this with them, but of course it can only be postponed. There is no getting out of it, unless they hear it from someone else. It is hard to know how they will react, when her own emotions over the event are so variable. Shame for her own actions and anger at her mother often war within her. But Fitzwilliam was disowned. Perhaps that means he will be able to understand. Since Darcy accepted him, perhaps he will be able to accept her too. 

Insecurity over their response wracks her, but she speaks anyway. "I do not believe that it is negotiable. I committed two unforgivable acts in Mama’s eyes. Neither of them can be remedied." 

“What kind of mischief did you get up to?” Fitz jokes nervously.

"None at all. Her complaints were serious. But let me explain. In May, Mr. Collins, my father's heir, came to Longbourne with the twin aims of getting a wife and ensuring Mama would never be alienated from her home, if Papa should die before her."

"And he chose Mary."

“Ultimately, he did, but not initially. Jane was his favorite for the first few days, but she was already partial to Mr. Bingley. So Mr. Collins settled on me. A little over a week later, he proposed.”

“My God, how horrible! The two of you do not suit each other at all.” There is sympathy in his voice, but also disgust. 

“That was my reasoning for refusing him. But it angered my mother, who saw saving her from potential eviction as reason enough for the marriage to proceed. She felt betrayed.” 

“And so she banished you?” Darcy asks incredulously. “When your sister accomplished the same end?”

"That and there was another reason. When I refused him, she called me into her room and pleaded with me to change my answer. Her pleading turned to shouting. When I refused again, she was so angry that she hit me, anywhere she could land a blow. Her attack was more vicious than usual." 

Fitzwilliam sits down in front of her and reaches out to take her hand. Several times he starts to speak, but he never finds the right words. She does not mind, because there are no right words. His intention to comfort her is the crucial thing. Though the worst of her story is to come, she feels safe enough to go on. 

More confidently, she continues, "Papa returned from Meryton soon after she began striking me. He tried to intervene, but that enraged Mama. She pulled out a pen knife and cut him through his jacket."

"Surely not!" Darcy exclaims, more an expression of disgust than disbelief.

"I wish it was not true. Our housekeeper Hill helped him stop the bleeding. While he was gone, she attacked me with the same knife, though she could not cut me as she did him. Fearful after seeing Papa's blood everywhere, I fought back, which I had never done before. I hit her in the eye." 

"You must have been terrified," Fitzwilliam sympathizes. Elizabeth nods. 

She can feel the terror still. It sits in her belly and grasps at her throat. A few deep breaths calm her. The terror recedes to a dull fear. There is no danger now, she reminds herself. She could stop talking, but if she tells them everything now, she will not have to do it again. 

"Mama screamed at me to leave, but I could no more leave than Mr. Collins could. Papa had barely made it home in the strong spring winds. Mary hid our cousin in the library, until Mama was restrained in her room. My sister’s fortitude must have impressed him, because by the next day, they were engaged. Naturally, he did end up leaving as soon as he could. He is not fond of my mother, as you can imagine.”

"Did you go to London at once?"

"No, to Lucas Lodge, stupidly thinking that I would be home soon. But Mama could not forgive me for hitting her. After a few days, Lady Lucas and I were butting heads. She asked me to leave. And that was when I had the worst news of all."

"Did your mother hurt one of your sisters?"

"No, they were all safely sent away to friends," she assures him. "As I left, Lady Lucas informed me that I will never be able to marry, as I struck my own mother, have no home, no clothes, and no money."

Darcy stares at her in bewilderment. "What an unkind thing to say, but what of it?"

"Well, I would very much like to get married someday. Finding out that I cannot marry was something of a wound on a wound."

“You did not take her literally, did you?” 

“Of- of course I did.”

Taking up a spot next to them, he says compassionately, “Lady Lucas lied to you, Elizabeth."

Shakily, she asks, "what do you mean?"

"Your prospects are not so bad as to dismiss the idea of marrying altogether. At the moment, things are bleak. That is undeniable. But circumstances will change for you soon. I do not promise you can marry among the top families in England, but a decent husband can surely be gotten for you.”

“Even without my mother's approval?” But as she thinks about it, she wonders why she would have believed Lady Lucas in the first place. 

“Come to London after the wedding.We can introduce you at the fashionable places in town. If you want one, I am sure you will have a proposal within the month. That a talented and charming young woman has been disowned is no deterrent to a man’s feelings. With our connections, even without money, you are by no means condemned to spinsterhood. And if your father could be persuaded to do something for you, you might even have your pick of men.”

She turns to Fitzwilliam to see if Darcy tells the truth. The man playfully begs her, “pray do not make us rush off to find you a husband yet. We would like to enjoy your company all to ourselves for a few months, at least.” 

The horrible feeling in her stomach eases, replaced by a sense of elation. She says in stunned jest, “I suppose no one can say any longer that I have no connections. For I am newly acquainted with an Earl.”

“How fortuitous for you,” he answers drolly. 

She imitates Caroline Bingley's manner of speaking. “Indeed, and My Lord assures me that I am fascinating and charming and he cannot be deprived of my company."

“Ah, I see that you already know how to play the game.” He smirks and gives her a sharp nod of acknowledgment. 

“And of course,” Darcy adds solemnly, “once your sister marries Charles, you may stay with them and he will care for you in the manner which you deserve, where others who may wish to cannot.” 

“So I do not need to become a governess?”

“There are other options for you to exercise, before that one,” Fitzwilliam argues. 

Relieved, she sighs, “ah! Thank God! I would have made a terrible one. I am too lax. My cousins would have dominated me and we would have done nothing but play all day.”

Darcy scowls. “Why would your aunt and uncle require you to work for them? Is all of your family like your mother?” 

“Oh, no, you mustn’t think that. It was all my idea. In the weeks after I left Hertfordshire, I fixated on independence, terrified of everyone turning on me. I thought if I worked for a few years, I could invest my money and live on the meager income. I imagined a dreary little life for myself, but one entirely free from the whims of others."

She shakes her head, feeling embarrassed. "My thoughts in the last two weeks have softened on the idea and I came here to clear my head and decide what to do." 

"And what have you decided?"

"I have not yet made any real decisions. My head is not fully clear and new considerations appear by the day. But I see I have been too scared of what Mama might do. It made all of my thinking hasty and misguided. The situation had not even settled yet and I was trying to make decisions. I made the wrong ones."

"They were not entirely bad, for you ended up here with us. And if we can do nothing else for you, let us help you make what you can of your life, before you resort to service."

"Thank you, I welcome your advice. The two of you and Molly have been so kind to me. At her coaxing, I have allowed her to make me a few dresses."

Darcy looks relieved. "That was a wise choice. I urge you to let the Gardiners assist you as well. It is hurtful to see you without the things that you need to be comfortable and happy. If they love you, they will be glad to assist you.”

"Now it is my turn to be grateful to the two of you." There are tears in her eyes. 

"That is not necessary," he assures her. 

"But I am, nonetheless. I have been so foolish and believed all the wrong people. My aunt and uncle have urged me to do as you have, but I would not heed them."

Fitzwilliam pats her on the knee. "Well, heed us now and it is almost as good. Soon we may all have the pleasure of seeing you supplied with everything you need."

It scares her to think of defying her mother again. But what can her mother really do to her? She has already done the worst. It is not unreasonable that Elizabeth should be free to make the most of what she has left. The men fall silent and leave her be for a little while, giving her the time to think. 

What they said seems life altering. If Darcy's assessment of the situation is accurate, then she can still marry and perhaps even someone she truly likes. Yet it is not the prospect of marriage that she finds herself thrilled with now, so much as the idea of going to London with them. As she considers it, she reasons there is no need to hurry to find a husband. 'A few months, at least' might not be adequate time to enjoy their company alone before she must devote herself to a lesser man. 

Once the rain lets up, they agree to chance the trip back to Rosings. They make it within the half hour. Servants intercept them at the door. A young woman cleans Elizabeth's boots and neatens her dress and hair before she is sent to await the gentlemen in the library. The books provide a source of temptation, but she does not want to lose herself in one at the moment and merely peruses the volumes.

When they rejoin her, Darcy informs her “our aunt is out visiting and should be gone a few hours more. You may stay, if you like.”

“Will she be upset to find out I was here?”

“She has issued no orders barring you.”

“I do not want to impose on the two of you.” 

Fitzwilliam insists, “you would not be imposing. What else have we to do?” 

“Whatever it is that you did before I came to Kent.” She shrugs.

“I would prefer to take up new occupations,” he says darkly. 

That is inducement enough for her. “Then I will stay at least until the rain stops.”

Darcy holds a letter in his hand, “I have a diversion for you, if you are interested.”

“Is it from Mr. Bingley?”

“No, it is from Miss Bingley.”

Elizabeth frowns. “Does she write to you often?”

“Only when she wants a favor.”

“You are friends?” The thought makes her uncomfortable.

“We are not. However, I must be friendly."

“What did she have to say this time?” Fitzwilliam asks in annoyance. 

“Among other things, she wants me to persuade Charles not to marry Miss Bennet.”

Only partially joking, Elizabeth pleads, “I beg you, do not. Whatever the rest of us deserve, she is worthy of happiness.”

“I would not consider it,” Darcy assures her. 

Fitz groans, “what other terrible things has she to say?"

"There are a number of items of complaint about our Miss Elizabeth, each backed with its own evidentiary paragraph."

She laughs in confusion, "all that trouble for me? Why would she try to persuade you to dislike me before we met?”

Darcy studies her thoughtfully, weighing his answer. “She sees you as a threat,” he suggests, “but I am glad her letter amuses rather than upsets you.”

“Oh, she does not possess that power. But how could I be a threat to her? I have nothing and she has 20,000.”

“She does not have charm, wit, and strength of character, which you have in abundance,” Fitzwilliam says flirtatiously. The effect is somewhat diminished by his distance and the fact that he is lying on the sofa with his hand over her eyes, but she still blushes. 

“Caroline wishes to marry me. To secure her chances, she acts quickly any time there is a sign of a rival,” Darcy tells her. 

Elizabeth is bewildered that Caroline Bingley, who has known him her whole life, sees her as any kind of threat. Surely she cannot be. Yet considering how well the three of them have been getting along, she thinks perhaps Caroline is at least partially right to worry. 

Fitzwilliam sits up and smiles at Darcy. "Let us hear dear Caroline's complaints." 

Darcy answers, "here is the easiest to dismiss; Miss Bennet is said to not live up to her reputation as a great beauty."

"I did not know she had a reputation for it. I thought we had been the first to discover it.” When Fitzwilliam sees her response, he laughs playfully. “Are you blushing again? Can you possibly have a reputation for beauty? I would think that if you did, you would not redden at the mere mention of it."

"I am wholly used to others speaking on the topic, but not yet you." 

"Ah, so it is different when I say it than when the stuffy old people of Hertfordshire note it?"

"Almost entirely, My Lord."

"If I asked you why that is, would you blush even more?"

"It is quite likely," she answers honestly, covering her face momentarily. 

He quirks an eyebrow at her and grins before asking Darcy, “what defects does Caroline want us to think she possesses?"

"Her eyes are too dull, for one.”

“But they are lively and bright. I cannot think of when I have seen a finer pair of eyes. What say you, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth laughs, “I will not answer for my own looks, though I may speak up for aspects of my character that I am sure she will mention."

"Does she, Darcy?"

"She does. We are warned to be wary of engaging in conversation, for Miss Bennet is dull and speaks plainly."

"I do not affect a manner of speaking wholly unlike the people around me, if that is what she means," Elizabeth quips. They laugh. 

Putting down the letter, Darcy bows his head to her. "And I commend you for resisting that fashion. My ears thank you."

"What has she to say about my playing? She cannot be silent on that matter, when she has so much else to say." 

"She admits you play tolerably well, but warns we should not let you sing at all." 

Elizabeth laughs, amused with Caroline’s lies. “Miss Bingley told me she loves my playing and singing. I will know now to never trust a thing that she says."

“Then you have learned a valuable lesson from this exercise." 

Fitzwilliam declares, “this is too much. No more of Caroline! We promised you activity and music. This will not do. Let us head to the ballroom instead. It is a lovely room and I am sure we will enjoy ourselves more there.” 

As they enter, Darcy professes that it is loveliest room in the house, though the least used. The space is clean, bright, and airy. One whole wall is mirrored, which must be dazzling to see when the candelabras are lit. But there are no chairs along the walls, no tables ready to hold drinks and refreshments. The room is bare. No on expects it to be of use.

Elizabeth frowns. “It is a shame it is neglected. Miss de Bourgh does not dance?” 

“No, but there is no reason it could not be put to more use now,” Fitzwilliam argues. 

A devilish grin erupts on his face and he spins around until he locates the piano. Playing a few notes, he finds it is passably tuned. So he sits and begins to play a song. 

“I can play for you, if you would like to dance and bring life to the old room,” he offers cheerily.

Elizabeth does not recognize the tune, but it is in 3/4 time. She gets the feeling that she is about to disappoint Mr. Collins and Fordyce again today. Darcy holds his hand out to her and she slips her fingers into his palm.  
   
“Which dance shall we do?” 

“A waltz.” He pulls her near to him.  

“My father does not approve of waltzes.”

“Your father is not here,” he reminds her flirtatiously, but he steps back from her. “You are free to do as you like. So how do you feel about them?”

She feels intrigued. “I do not know the steps.” 

“I shall show you, if that is what you would like.”

Surely there can be no harm in a dance. And if she is not thinking of her mother's wishes anymore, she might as well set aside her father's too. His ban on the new dance seems unnecessary. So she smiles confidently and nods her head at him. He directs the same grin he reserves for Fitzwilliam at her. It is more dazzling than the candles ever could be. 

He stands next to her and does the steps, so that she may imitate them. When she has them comfortably committed to memory, he takes her by the waist and hand, bringing her closer than he did last time. It flusters her and she must bite the inside of her lip to focus. 

He leads her in a practice pass and she finds that it is quite easy. Although she makes a few mistakes before she gets used to it. Every movement of his seems perfect, which is entirely unfair. And he has the gall to seen unbothered by her proximity. 

Fitzwilliam warns he is about to begin the song in earnest and Darcy stills them. She searches his eyes and her breath hitches upon finding affection there. His hand on her waist tightens and he brings her nearer, so close she can feel his breath on her cheek. Perhaps he is not unbothered.

The song begins and they slowly sweep across the dance floor. She can hardly pay attention to Darcy as she gets used to the rhythm of the steps. When that feels normal, his nearness becomes its own distraction again. Deep breaths and looking away as much as she can are the only things that keep her going. But gradually she finds that she is recovering. Fearing he will think her uninterested, she risks speaking, hoping her feet will not lose their way. 

“Fitzwilliam does play the piano very well, you did not exaggerate.”

“He attends it poorly or he would play even better.”

“For my sake, I am glad that he does not practice, so that we may be nearly equal in skill.”

“Ha! I will not urge him to resume practicing then. You may surpass him, with application.”

She means to exchange other pleasantries, but their reflections in the mirrored wall catch her eye and distract her. The image of them together is grace itself. Their movements make it seem as if their bodies weigh nothing. By her judgment, she has never looked so lovely as she does in his arms. Darcy turns to see what she looks at. When he sees them together, his curiosity matches hers. 

“We make a striking couple,” he murmurs. 

As the song ends and Darcy stills them, their eyes meet and they both laugh, though she is not sure why. Nothing is funny exactly, except the feeling creeping up her spine. He lets her hand go and steps away from her. 

Fitzwilliam joins them from the piano at once. “Darcy, fetch a violin and play for us,” he requests. “I want to dance with Miss Bennet too.” 

“My Lord.” Darcy bows and leaves the room. He was teasing again, she is certain. She wonders if it is another joke between them.

Alone with one of them for the first time, she is both fearful and excited. "No one will see us?"

"No one comes down here much. If anyone does, it will be our man Mr. Eade. You may trust him to be discreet. But anyway, all we are doing is dancing. Do not worry."

"I am not so much worried about the dancing as I am that we are the only two people in a room together." 

“Perhaps you should be worried about the dancing though. I am a fast dancer, Elizabeth. Be ready.” He takes her hand and walks her around in a small circle. She feels as if she is being assessed. His grin tells her that she has met his criteria, whatever they may be.

“I take it I am to waltz again?”

“If it is not too much trouble.”

She sighs, but smiles, so the effect of seeming put out is ruined. 

When Darcy returns, he quickly warms his instrument up. When ready, he begins to play a song that seems too fast to dance to. To her surprise, it is not. Fitzwilliam leads her in the swiftest dance she has ever done. They fly across the room in wide arcs. Elizabeth takes a few passes to fully get the hang of it, but after that she feels like she is acquitting herself well. Her enjoyment differs from her dance with Darcy, but it is no less fulfilling. 

He commends her after they finish, “I knew you could do it. I had such faith in you, and you have met it.” 

He hugs her to him and his praise warms her, but she should really make him let her go. A terrible thought occurs to her. 

“Mr. Collins said something else,” she whispers to him. 

“Is that so? What other pearls of wisdom did he have for you?”

“He warned me that you have a reputation.”

“And what did he say about it?”

“He did not know details, just that you have one.”

“I cannot refute it.”

“It is not for seducing young women, is it?”

Fitzwilliam laughs, pulling away so he may look her in the eye. “No, nor am I a drunkard, a cheat, or a debtor."

“Then what is it?”

“I would not follow the rules and wanted to live my own way. My father would not allow it. So I was to forever be the black sheep of the family.” 

Though perhaps it should not, this gives her a great deal of relief. She can no more judge him than he has judged her, especially with no specific accusation is leveled against him. 

“We are two of a kind then!”

“And Darcy our like, because he was cut off too, though my father had no power to disinherit him.”

“How fortuitous that we three should meet and be able to understand one another.”

“I consider it a blessing." 

He is still holding her and she does not want to ask him to stop. But he must let go. Darcy comes to join them in the center of the dance floor. She is sure he will be bothered by the embrace. 

Fitzwilliam declares to them both, “we should dance more!" 

“Shall I play for the two of you?” she asks, pulling away from him and heading for the piano. 

Seeing them in the river and at the bottom of the hill, sparked an idea in her mind. Despite her admonition to herself not to let her mind run wild, she is intrigued about how they would look while dancing. They must have done it before. Perhaps they even learned to dance together, from the same master. But her question has made them observe her curiously, with an edge of fear. 

Worrying she has pushed too far, she teases lightly, “do cousins not dance together? Sisters do.” She begins to play a minuet in 3/4, rather than a waltz, but she is sure they can make do. 

As they hesitate, she prompts them playfully, “no one comes down here.” 

“If you insist,” Darcy gives in with a smile. The sudden spike of tension that ran through the room eases.

They join hands and get into position adeptly, surprising her. There is no jostling or acting too consciously of themselves. She stares at them for a moment too long before she realizes she should turn around and play. 

The piano is set up mid-room, so she cannot see them as they first begin to dance. As their path brings them around, and they see that she is watching, they restrict themselves to just the half of the room in her eye line. In this case her imagination has not led her wrongly. 

They are breathtaking to watch, moving in perfect synchronicity. With a touch of envy, she thinks they look better than she and Darcy had. He guides his companion with the same care that he showed to her. For his part, Fitzwilliam lets himself be led as ably as he led her. They talk and smile as easily while dancing as they do when still. Unless they are just naturally good, they must do this fairly often.

After the dance has ended, Fitzwilliam asks her archly, “did that sate your curiosity?”

“What makes you think I was curious?”

“You watched us the whole time we were within your sight.”

She smiles involuntarily and cannot hide it. “True, but you moved so that I could observe you.”

“How else could we show off our forms to best advantage? It was all for you, Miss Bennet.” 

She smiles appreciatively, but thinks that it must have been at least a little for themselves. They enjoyed it too much for it to have been solely to please her. 

Fitzwilliam begs off on anymore dancing, saying that he must have something to eat. A meal is arranged for them and they are eating it when Mr. Eade comes to tell them Lady Catherine has returned from her visit and requests her nephews' presence. Elizabeth says she will return to Hunsford, to avoid anything unpleasant and they reluctantly agree. But they bid her to finish eating while the carriage is prepared for her. 

“In what manner may we rescue you from Hunsford tomorrow?” Fitzwilliam quizzes, putting another pasty onto her plate.

Without needing to think, she requests, “a picnic, please.”

"Did we not just have a picnic?" Darcy asks. 

"That was a loaf of bread and some beer, not a picnic. We must have a real meal!"

"We will order it at once," Fitzwilliam promises. 

Darcy asks, “should we extend the invitation to your sister and Mr. Collins?” 

She purses her lips while she thinks. “I think it would be best, but invite Miss de Bourgh and her friend too. With a larger party, we may avoid speaking to Mr. Collins much at all.”

When the carriage is ready and they head for the door, she begins to thoroughly dislike the thought of going. Everything has begun to feel so promising since their walk. This is just the wrong moment to have to leave, when the whole afternoon stretched out in front of them. 

Darcy hands her up into the car, his hand warm and steady, and bids her a good evening. However, even though it is drizzling, Fitzwilliam steps up onto the carriage step and hangs on the door talking to her. He comes up with every excuse to keep her, apparently as reluctant to let her go as she is to leave.

After a few minutes, he can think of nothing more and he jumps down. She tells herself not to turn around and watch them as they fade into the distance, but she cannot help it. Fitzwilliam eagerly waves goodbye. But Darcy's face is almost stern again. She does not know what to make of him, though she is certain she is at risk of liking him very much. 

They turn away first and Darcy slips his arm around Fitzwilliam's shoulders as they head inside. She does not know what to make of them together either. Their closeness is sweet, but seems strange to her. She has no proper frame of reference. 

All the brothers and close male cousins she knows are either very young or very old. The young ones are still quite affectionate with each other, as children are, though they will as soon kiss each other as fight each other. And brothers lucky enough to have made it into old age together are generally more free with each other than anyone else. Still, she has never met two people who have endured so much, who must feel so grateful to still have each other. So perhaps their behavior is not strange at all, just more affectionate than most.


	4. Wednesday, July 28th, 1813

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this chapter, sorry it took so long to get it to you. The beginning of May and Mother’s Day is a difficult time for me. My brain was out of commission and I was adrift for a few days. I’m managing better now. 
> 
> My new beta reader thinks it would be a good idea to make a note of what differs in this story from Pride and Prejudice. Different ages: Fitzwilliam is 26, Darcy 24, and Georgiana 15. Everyone else’s age is the same as canon. The timeline of events between Mr. Bingley taking Netherfield and Mr. Collins proposing to Elizabeth is almost entirely the same. The only major difference is that he occupies Netherfield at the end of April 1813 rather than the end of September 1811. 
> 
> I encourage you to listen to the music mentioned in the chapter. Ignaz Pleyel was well know to Jane Austen. His music was well represented in her collection. It is quite enjoyable. He really did have a business that made pianos. It only shut down recently. He was once very well know. But for some reason, other contemporaries of his, like Haydn, have been better remembered. 
> 
> TW for actual violence and use of hashish. Cannabis was not illegal then in any form. Nor was it widely known or available. Sorry if it bothers you.

Mr. Collins leaves for business in Tonbridge before anyone else has risen, much to Elizabeth’s relief. Citing work of her own, Mary decides to stay home. So when the carriage arrives for them just before eleven o’clock, Elizabeth becomes its sole occupant. From the doorway, her sister advises her to be home by seven at the latest.

As the carriage pulls into Rosings’s courtyard, she sees her arrival has been eagerly anticipated. The gentlemen await her on the stone steps and rush to help her exit the vehicle. 

Fitzwilliam looks inside and then back at her. “Miss Bennet, you have forgotten to bring your relatives along.” 

“I have not forgotten them. They are far too busy to picnic with the likes of us. Their minds are on a higher calling,” Elizabeth says with a smile and a curtsy. 

“How lucky for us! My aunt and Anne left on a visit to one of the de Bourgh cousins this morning. We do not expect them back until tomorrow. So we have the run of the place.” 

“Very lucky, indeed,” she replies, having no desire to meet their aunt today. 

Darcy gestures to her dress. “Is this new?” 

“It is.” She twirls around, so they may get the full effect of the blue muslin and the ribbon decoration on the back. “Molly finished it this morning. How did you know?”

He leans down and plucks a pin from the hem of the dress. “I believe she forgot something in her haste.”

She takes the offending object and secures it in her reticule. “She has been very busy at it. It is dear of her to help me.” 

A flicker of distant lightning momentarily brightens the sky. They look to the southern horizon, where thunderstorms are building. Unlike the quickly rolling storms of the day before, these threaten to last all day. The prospects of a picnic seem diminished.

Hopelessly, she asks, “where shall we picnic with this weather?”

“We thought it best to stay close to the house. So the gardens are our destination, if they please you,” Darcy offers. 

That cheers her. They may still be outdoors, while near the safety of the house. “The gardens will suit very well. May we tour them?” 

“You are not hungry now?” Fitzwilliam asks. 

“Not quite yet.”

He claps his hands together. “Then let us show you the delights of Rosings’ gardens, such as they are. They are nothing to Pemberley’s, of course.”

She jokes, “that cannot possibly be true, because Mr. Collins, who has much to say on the subject, reasons that Rosings is the finest house in all of the land, with the finest gardens.”

“What has he to say about them?”

Imitating the clergyman, she says, “the drainage system is the most modern and elegant in England.”

“Is it? I did not know that drainage systems could achieve elegance. It seems hardly different from the ones I have seen anywhere else,” he points out, playing along. 

She nods her head as Mr. Collins does when disagreeing with someone. “Ah, that is true. But in the gardens of Rosings’ Park, the form of the gardens combines with the function of the drainage system to achieve a kind of elegance that cannot be found elsewhere. Only the best and most modern designs for the Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

“I suppose this garden design is so old that it has become new again.”

“Good taste never goes out of style,” she argues in Mr. Collins’ fawning tone.

Darcy congratulates her, “your sister has given you the dubious gift of a brother who will remain amusing to you for life.” They all chuckle at that. 

The gardens are well designed and quite pretty, in an ordered way, but they are too formal for her tastes and cannot fully capture her interest. Nor do they hold Fitzwilliam’s attention for long. Clearly feeling playful, he suggests that a game of sardines is the best way to see the gardens and learn their layout. 

Initially, she does not take everything seriously, because sardines is a child's game. She has been beyond playing it, even with Lydia and Kitty, for years now. Still, the men proceed with it in all earnestness. By mutual consent, Darcy hides first while she and Fitzwilliam wait without peeking. It all feels very silly. But when she sees Fitzwilliam tearing about, looking for Darcy, she feels a sense of competitiveness rise within her. Soon she is running and searching in earnest too. 

Most of the garden features do rise higher than her waist. With his height, she reasons it will be hard for Darcy to hide almost everywhere. That makes the tall hedge maze the likeliest place for him to be. She runs through its unfamiliar turns, hoping to find him among one of the corridors. However, it is Fitzwilliam that she meets first, as they almost collide on a turn. At first they are both stunned. Then he dissolves into laughter and they both continue on their way. 

Finally, she spots Darcy, well hidden behind a statue, standing absolutely still. Only a small piece of his brown jacket sticking out gave him away. She tries to squeeze in next to him, but the spot he chose is so small that there is not enough room. Instead, she stands awkwardly pressed to his side. It is no use. Fitzwilliam finds them moments later. 

That makes it his turn to hide. As they wait together, Darcy is serious and diligent about not peeking. Her own peeking is fruitless. She laughs at him, because he cannot even play a game without making it seem like a grave and weighty endeavor. When their count is up, he finds his cousin within two minutes. It takes her another three to locate them where they are crouched behind a small shed. 

They give her double the time to hide, since she has never been to the gardens and had no proper tour. However, she finds a spot easily, tucked in a small alcove between a hedge and a stone wall and did not need the extra allotment. The alcove has a built-in pedestal. She perches on it and thinks herself very clever while she waits. 

They call out and their search begins. For minutes, she hears nothing. The hedge in front of her obscures her view almost entirely. If someone runs in front of her, within a few feet, she will be able to tell. So far they have not even come her way. She congratulates herself on her success and snickers quietly. 

From just above her, she hears, “it is a good spot. But I do not think there is enough room for me to join you down there.” On the wall above her head, Fitzwilliam lays on his side, grinning at her. He reaches out and ever so slightly brushes his fingers against her shoulder.

Startled by his presence, she gasps and cries out, “My Lord!” 

Hearing him had truly surprised her, but her reaction was so out of proportion that she cannot help but laugh at herself. Since she cannot stop laughing to see straight, she has to fight her way out of the hedge. He meets her in front of it. Her hair is full of leaves and he tries to pick them out, but cannot arrest his own amusement. 

The sound of their mirth summons Darcy. In equal parts confusion and amusement, he comments, “this is not how sardines is played.” 

When that sets her off even more, he asks, “what on earth have you done to poor Miss Bennet?” 

This drives Fitzwilliam to utter distraction. He tries to explain that she had started it, which she sees as an oversimplification of the whole matter. But her continued chuckling eggs on his laughter to the point where he can no longer speak. Though Darcy does not get the joke, the sight of them alone is hilarious. He laughs along briefly before guiding them to sit on a nearby bench. 

Sat between the two of them, Elizabeth tries to quiet herself. But Fitzwilliam occasionally mimics her startled reaction and dissolves into laughter again, setting her off too. When he has wrung all the merriment from the moment, he finally calms. 

"I was only repaying you for the scare yesterday," he says, by way of apology. 

“It is a fair bit of payback,” she concedes. "Do you often play children's games for revenge?”

Darcy scowls and Fitzwilliam laughs, "when the mood strikes, for other reasons usually. Darcy thinks it is too silly. But he does it anyway, to please me." 

“Are you sure he does not enjoy it too?” She looks to Darcy. He ducks her gaze, but she thinks that is answer enough.

Changing the subject entirely, Darcy tells her, “you have leaves in your hair, Miss Bennet.”

“Could you pick them out for me? Otherwise I shall have to go in and take care of it.” 

He carefully extracts them one by one. She can barely tell that he is doing anything, save for an occasional gentle tugging. 

“All done,” he declares a minute later. 

However, Fitzwilliam reaches up and pulls one last leaf from her hair. “Now it is done.” 

Darcy gives her hair a once over and shakes his head. She realizes her hair styling must have taken a beating in her hasty exit from the hedge. Deftly, nudges her pinned curls back into place. His face is open and gentle while he works, a contrast from his demeanor during the game. As he sets her ringlets right, the back of his finger caresses the side of her face.

When he sees that she has been watching him, he says, “I should have asked before I touched you. Forgive m-” 

She shakes her head at him. If she were entirely free to speak her mind, she wonders what she would say. When the answer occurs to her, she feels she cannot avoid saying it.

“It is not necessary. Thank you for fixing my hair. I am used to having affectionate relatives around. I never go so long without being regularly touched. I suppose that is part of why I like our friendship. With all the dancing and other contact, I feel right at home.”

He places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes her briefly. “I am sorry your mother took that from you,” he laments. 

“Me too. But I am glad to be here now, to have found another place where I am welcome.”

For no apparent reason, she experiences the sensation of being watched. There is no one in sight. But it spooks her, because they are touching. Darcy seems to have felt it too, because he moves his hand and puts some space between them. 

Eager to shake the eerie feeling, she says, “I am hungry now. Where shall we feast?”

Solicitously, Fitzwilliam offers, “I will have it readied, if the two of you would like to join me around the other side of the house. It is a lovely time for a short stroll.”

Fitzwilliam goes into the house and they walk along the gravel path, taking the roundabout way. She waits for Darcy to say something, but he seems happy to walk in silence. As her mind is likely to run wild with sensation and expectations if left to its own devices, she requires more of a distraction than that.

So she asks, “you play two instruments, but not the pianoforte, is that correct?” 

“You are right. I do not play it at all. For some reason, I have no knack for it. But I do not mind. It is nice that Fitz is better at something musical than I am.” 

“You are very solicitous of his feelings,” she points out. 

“Yes, he and Georgiana are all that is left of my old life. So I have devoted myself to ensuring their happiness. There has been little else that truly matters to me, aside from Pemberley and our friendship with Bingley.” 

Elizabeth smiles, because she likes his devotion to his little family. “Well then, tell me about your sister. I have not heard nearly enough of her.”

Proudly, he tells her, “Georgiana is fifteen, nine years my junior, and as tall as Fitz now. She is a very accomplished piano player.” He falls silent. She waits expectantly, but no more is forthcoming. 

“That is good, but is she loud or quiet? Does she attend her piano easily or must you order her to it? Tell me something of her personality,” she goads gently. 

“I told you I am unsure of what to say at times. I do not perform well to strangers and scarcely better to my friends.”

She concedes, “and I am suspended somewhere between, which might make things even more awkward.” He nods in agreement. “But when I think of it, I have heard you say the right thing at just the right time more than once. So you really cannot be all that bad at it.”

He looks at her in amused exasperation and gives no direct answer to her teasing. “Unless she is singing, my sister is most often quiet. Though when she converses, she does so with intelligence and shy humor. I need never coax her to her piano. And no father could be prouder than I am of her.”

Elizabeth slips her hand into the crook of Darcy’s elbow and beams at him. “Now that is a proper description. And how are you as a brother?”

“You ask me to assess myself?”

“I trust you to be honest.”

He contemplates the question before answering. “If I had failed her less, I would say I am a very good brother.”

“Were these failures the result of your negligence?”

“Never. Much of it has been out of my hands. After I left Wentworth Woodhouse for Cambridge, my aunt and uncle neglected her. It was nothing to your situation, but she was not happy. We took over her guardianship when I was 21. ”

With even greater admiration than before, she says, “then I should think you a very good brother indeed. It is commendable for you to have done so. And you are not yet 25?” 

“I am twenty-four and Fitz is two years my senior. But do not commend me. For my part, it is selfishness. I should not know how to live without her. Or without him.” 

"These last few months must have been agony for you then."

"They have been. But it feels as if that is changing.” He smiles. “Fitz slept through the night again. He did not move the bed even once."

“I am glad to hear it.” Something about it strikes her as curious though. 

She asks thoughtfully, “you stay with him at night?"

He looks away, she thinks out of embarrassment. "I have had to. Sometimes he wakes from the nightmares and does not know himself. Once he fell down the stairs while he was insensate. I cannot leave him alone.”

She squeezes his arm in reassurance. “Anyone would do the same in your place. I just did not know how bad it was. I thought he exaggerated yesterday."

Darcy shakes his head. “I wish that were the case."

Brightly, she points out, “he seems to be emerging from his grief. Hopefully, he will continue to improve, if you see that he gets plenty of good food and exercise.”

"And plenty of time with a certain young woman.” He cannot quite stop a smile from coming to this lips, though she sees that he fights it. 

"You do not believe that notion too?" 

"I was as skeptical as you are. But I cannot refute that something has changed. If he attributes it to you, it is no hardship to see you everyday. And if you insist it must be exercise, it is similarly easy to ensure that we spend time dancing or walking or riding. If you do not mind."

“Of course not, but what shall be done when we cannot see each other so often? What if you leave Kent ahead of me?”

“With your permission, I believe it can be arranged that no such day occurs for months. By that time, he may be recovered and no longer require whatever magic it is that you possess.”

She jokes, “and if I ensnare him with a new enchantment?”

He looks at her with amusement. “If it is as beneficial to him as what you have done so far, I will not complain.” 

They arrive at a small lawn next to a veranda that leads into the house. Under Fitzwilliam's instruction, the servants spread out blankets and pillows for them to sit on. The dishes are arranged just so. When they are done, two servants remain, standing an appropriate distance away, next to the house. 

“The food looks exceedingly excellent,” she praises.

Pointing at the roasted bird breast, Fitzwilliam proudly tells her, “I shot this bird just for you, Miss Bennet. After you deprived us of your company yesterday, we became dull and Lady Catherine dismissed us from her presence. We could not think of what to do. Then Darcy had the brilliant idea to hunt for you, so off we went.”

“But it rained off and on for the rest of the day!” 

“Well, we had to get you something good for the picnic.”

She smiles prettily in thanks. “I am glad your efforts were not in vain.” 

He glows at the compliment. She starts to serve herself, but Darcy carefully takes the plate from her. Fitzwilliam asks what she would like to try and then portions some out for her. Though he forgets that she is smaller than both of them and gives her far too much. 

“Should we not be serving you, My Lord?” she asks teasingly. 

Fitzwilliam rolls his eyes at her. “No, never. I will serve you. My title only exalts me in the minds of others. It does not lend me any special grace. A man may be an earl and still be a devious rogue or a weak fool. I sense that you and I, at our cores, are equal or you are my superior.”

“That cannot be true,” she dismisses. “But what about Darcy?”

“He is vastly my superior, in every way.”

“He cannot play the piano,” she reminds him. 

“Ah, well, there is that. But he can be forgiven, I think, because he plays the cello, the violin, and the harp.”

“All three?” 

“Yes.” 

“You did not say that,” she accuses Darcy.

“He does not like to brag. So I must do it for him.” Fitzwilliam grins, clearly not upset with the task. 

Though she would like to savor the meal, all three of them eat voraciously, as the game of sardines stimulated their appetites. Fitzwilliam finishes first and after he has had a glass of wine, he shows her that they are just outside of the ballroom. With the doors open, the pianoforte can be heard as far as the lawn. 

“I am yours to command. What shall I play for you?” he asks flirtatiously.

“Something lively. Impress me.”

He takes his leave and goes to the instrument. To her surprise and pleasure, he has chosen Pleyel’s Piano Sonata in G Major. She grins and mutters that he has good taste.

“You are pleased with his selection?” Darcy asks. 

“I am and happy in general to find you just as you advertised yourselves to me on Sunday, true lovers of music. I am now even more eager to see Pemberley’s music room. It must hold great delights.”

Proudly, he asserts, “it truly is a masterpiece. Pemberley and Georgiana deserve no less.” 

“Then they are very lucky to have you to provide them with what they deserve.”

He nods his head absently and looks away. “I have not always been able to protect Georgiana as I should have. If I told you that we had some trouble with my sister, I think you would not judge her harshly, as others might.”

“I would not judge her at all.” She feels she cannot afford to judge anyone at the moment. 

Dark eyes search her face before he speaks again. “We have not yet told anyone this. Though the concealment cannot last. A year ago, there was an urgent matter at Pemberley. We left my sister in London under the care of one Mrs. Younge, her nurse and governess. The matter should have taken a few days. Unfortunately, it stretched on for more than a week." 

He continues, "we had no reason to suspect anything of Mrs. Younge. But sensing an opportunity in our absence, she betrayed us. She took Georgiana and delivered her to a man named George Wickham at a church in Gretna Green.”

“Oh, Darcy,” she says sympathetically. 

He does not speak again right away. When he does, it is with great sorrow. “We uncovered the plot too late. She did not consent to the marriage, but the clergyman was bribed to permit the union anyway. They were leaving as we arrived. Fitz grabbed her and we raced her back to Pemberley and then London. Fearing Wickham would try to take her back, we kept on the move. But he was a wanted man, even before the kidnapping, and he has never shown himself again.”

Reassuringly, she promises, “I could never judge her for that. Anyone who would is a fool.”

He looks at her with deep gratitude. “We only wait on the annulment to have the matter dealt with. These things tend to drag on. But there can be no hushing it up, once it is settled.”

Despite her own acceptance, Elizabeth knows such a thing could ruin Miss Darcy’s reputation. If people make the wrong assumptions, Georgiana will be seen as tainted. The shame of her expulsion from Longbourn would pale in comparison. 

Not knowing what to say, she asks, “where is she now?”

“There is a school in London known for its security and privacy, as well as the excellent education it provides. She has been there since November.”

“She does well there?”

His face brightens. “Very well. She is making friends and is expected to soon surpass her piano master. In a little over a fortnight, she will host an assembly at the school, even though she has been there less than a year.”

“That sounds like an honor.”

He smiles. “It is. Only responsible girls are asked.” He pauses for a moment. “So things improve. They will never be perfect. But there is hope for her future.”

She pats him on the arm. “You have placed a lot of trust in me, Darcy. I will keep her secret. When the matter is known and I hear any gossip or innuendo, I shall tell people the truth of it.” 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. 

The two of them fall silent and listen to Fitzwilliam play. After the piece is finished, he rejoins them on the lawn. They clap for him and she praises his technique. 

He nods his head in thanks, but insists, “it would have sounded better on one of Pleyel’s own instruments.”

“Does he make his own pianofortes?”

“Yes, and sells them too. The sound is rich in a way that I have not heard before. There are a few in London. One is owned by a friend of Bingley’s.” He looks at her expectantly. “Now, would you care to play for us?”

“Of course! But what shall I play?”

"Something with feeling. Impress me.”

There is no sheet music, so she must play from memory, but that is not difficult for her. Her recall of music is very good. She grins as she settles on Haydn’s Piano Sonata no. 59 in E flat. As Haydn was Pleyel’s piano master, it is her subtle way of saying she is better than him. 

The gentlemen eventually follow her inside and stand near to the instrument, but not near enough that she can hear them speak. Nonetheless, she is sure they are talking about her. Their continual glances her way make that clear. But she is surprised, as she catches Fitzwilliam's eye, to find that she feels flattered and pleased with the attention, rather than flustered.

It is a great contrast to how she had felt when Mr. Collins had spoken of her in the days before his proposal. His praise had been loud and excessive. He had only been an embarrassment to her, in part because he praised traits he hoped to find in her, not the ones he actually found. She could possibly have forgiven him his awkwardness, if he had truly seen her for who she is. 

But she considers that she is bad at accepting compliments in general, whether they are accurate are not. Their praise of her over the last two days initially made her uneasy, though she still liked it. An appropriate response eluded her. She is used to her face and form being praised, but her intelligence, humor, and talents often go unnoticed, not so with Darcy and Fitzwilliam. 

With them, she feels appreciated in a way that she has seldom experienced. At home, everyone knows of her mother's cruelty. She is often a subject of pity and occasionally scorn. But to her new friends, she is a lovely young woman with many talents and much to recommend her. Her past is a story she told them yesterday. Charm, wit, and talent can eclipse it. 

She skips the second movement of the piece and heads straight into the finale. For the moment, music does not quite satisfy her. She is more eager to join their conversation. They clap when the movement is finished and she joins them. 

As she glances to the end of the room, she is reminded of a question she had forgotten to ask the day before. “The mirror is spectacular. Is it all of a piece?”

Fitzwilliam shakes his head. “Ah, no. Let me show you. I am surprised that Mr. Collins has not told you all about it.” 

As they get within five feet of the mirror, she discerns the almost imperceptible seams between the panes. He explains how it was assembled. But she is distracted by the sight of the three of them standing together. They suit each other well, with their curly brown hair and dark, lively eyes. Her resemblance to them ends there. Their resemblance to each other carries on into the line of their jaws and the delicate arch of their nostrils. 

She is not the only one captivated by the sight of them. Darcy moves to stand next to his cousin, just behind Elizabeth. He studies the reflected image of them, a gently pleased look on his face. She catches his eyes lingering on her body. He colors when he sees that she has noticed. 

Oblivious to the exchange, Fitzwilliam breaks the moment by asking if she likes to play billiards. She confesses that she has never played before, but would not mind learning. Darcy walks away for a moment, clearly feeling awkward. Fitzwilliam suggests they freshen up and then meet back up in a small sitting room just down the hall. 

She is the first back. One o’clock chimes as Fitzwilliam rejoins her. Waiting on Darcy to return, he begins to tell her a very amusing story about a series of pranks that he had played as a child on Darcy’s first cello master. The man loved games, puzzles, and tricks of any kind. When Fitzwilliam visited Pemberley, he would allow them to prank him, if Darcy finished the lesson early. 

When Darcy returns, he sits down next to her to listen in quiet amusement, occasionally correcting a detail or adding something. Fitzwilliam is balanced on the thick arm of an old sofa. He exuberantly acts out being caught about to pour a bucket of water over the tutor’s head, when something catches his eye and he goes still. 

“That’s the third time,” he says absently. 

“What?” Darcy turns around to look at what is bothering him. 

Fitzwilliam stands and goes to the entryway of the room, looking down the hallway. He returns to them, shaking his head. “I counted five times that the same servant walked past this room. He looks like a workman, perhaps. But the only repairs are upstairs in Anne’s rooms. Why should he be here?”

He resumes his place on the arm of the sofa. “The first time I saw him, he stood still, as if he was listening to us.” 

“Perhaps he has some work to do in here and must wait for us to leave,” Darcy suggests generously. 

“It may be. But something feels wrong.” 

The cello teacher and bucket of water are forgotten. The three of them wait in silence for the man to pass by again. Just as it feels that he will not return, he slowly walks past. He seems surprised that they are watching him.

“You there,” Fitzwilliam commands, rising from the sofa. “Come here.” 

The man looks at him, his surprise turning to anger. He does not comply at first, but eventually steps into the room. Fitzwilliam goes to him. The man is taller and larger than Darcy. His muscular form betrays his years of labor. 

“What is your name, man?” 

“Perry,” comes the gruff reply. 

“Have you some business in this room?”

“No, sir.” 

“Then why the devil have you walked past it so many times in the last few minutes?”

“I forgot the proper tools and had to retrieve them.” But the answer is almost flippant in tone.

“And that required you to stop and listen to us?”

Mr. Perry smirks. Then he looks down and shakes his head, as if he has made a decision. His face is dark when he lifts it to look at the earl. “I thought to amuse myself by seeing what the three of you were doing.” 

“You what?” Fitzwilliam explodes. 

The man leers at him. “I saw the three of you looking cozy in the garden and found it quite diverting. When you came inside, I thought to myself, here is my chance to listen in on them. How lucky for me, to find you without a chaperone and paying no mind to the world. Young love, eh?” His tone is lecherous and Elizabeth is disturbed by it. 

“Get out!” Darcy insists, his voice dangerously low.

Perry laughs at him. “As you like, sir. But if you are worried about reputations, it is yourself you should be upset with.”

Fitzwilliam grabs the man by the arm, likely to escort him from the room. Without warning, Perry wheels around and punches him solidly in the gut. Elizabeth screams as the smaller man reels backwards, gasping, unable to draw breath. Terror grips her. 

As the servant goes after Fitzwilliam, Darcy launches himself over the back of the sofa and lands a glancing blow on the back of the man's head, which staggers him. He wavers, but eventually flips around and swings at Darcy clumsily.

Fitzwilliam falls against the wall and sinks down, clutching his abdomen. She hazards going to him. Finally, after what seems like too long, he is able to take a breath. Another shuddering inhalation follows. And another. None of them are sufficient to drive the look of fear from his eyes. 

Behind them, she turns to see Darcy pulling Mr. Perry back. He had gotten within a few feet of the injured man. Something in her propels her forward. There are no thoughts in her mind, only instructions to her arms and legs to act. She must get Fitzwilliam away from the scuffle. 

They are but five feet from the hallway. She takes his hand and pulls him forward, trying to get him to his feet. Though he is slight, she cannot lift him. Her actions only succeed in pulling him forward onto his hands and knees. Coughs wrack his body. With great difficulty and minimal help from him, she pulls him slowly forward, inch by inch, until they make it to the hallway.

When she stops and rests for a moment, he tries to say something. But he cannot breathe properly, much less speak. So he motions down the hallway. She thinks he means for her to run. Instead, she takes hold of his arm again and tries to pull him further down the hall.

The refusal to give up is proven wise. Perry keeps trying to get into the hallway. Whether it is to escape or hurt Fitzwilliam again, she knows they must get away from him. Luckily, she has a chance. Perry must earn every step he takes their way, as Darcy pursues him. 

The gentleman strikes Perry across the side of the head, just by the ear. The man howls, but it was not a solid blow. In repayment, he delivers a vicious kick to Darcy’s shin. Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam both wince. Darcy seems not to feel it, but it gives Perry the opportunity to enter the hallway. 

Giving chase, Darcy strikes again and Perry narrowly dodges. As he lunges away, Darcy deals another glancing hit on the man’s jaw. He does not land every blow, but Perry has only landed the kick, that she has seen. While Darcy’s gaze still looks clear, the carpenter shakes his head, dazed. The successive strikes are having an effect. He is distracted. 

Seizing the advantage, Darcy punches him in the gut, just as the man had done to Fitzwilliam. He staggers back, retching. The hallway wall shudders under his weight as he slams into it. They watch as he slumps down and falls over, clutching his head and belly. Darcy prods the man with his foot and sees he is not going to move for a while.

His face crumples when he sees the state that Fitzwilliam is in. Though he breathes more regularly now, each breath is labored. With a glance to their attacker’s heaving form, he pulls Fitzwilliam to his feet. Together, they round the corner to the next hallway, where there is a small office with a door. 

Darcy deposits him on the only sofa. Kneeling in front of him, he checks his face, which is red, but quickly returning to the right color. Fitzwilliam whispers that he is fine. She and Darcy share a look of skepticism. 

Without giving any warning, he unbuttons Fitzwilliam’s vest. She presumes he means to examine his abdomen. Since her hand immediately covers her eyes, she cannot be sure. 

After a moment, he tells her, “I apologize. You can uncover your eyes. There was no wound or bruise. Still, I will summon Anne’s physician, Mr. Brown.”

Fitzwilliam reaches out and takes his arm. “That is not necessary,” he mouths. Now that he is resting on the couch, each breath does seem to come easier to him. 

Darcy will have none of it and gets to his feet. “Then he will not be here long. I will see to Perry and then speak with the housekeeper.”

She follows him to the door. Just before he leaves, he looks at her with real sternness for the first time. "I had everything in hand and did not need your help. If there is ever another situation like that, do not be brave. Run and hide. That was very foolish.”

Then he takes a key from a table by the door and locks them both in. Tears fill her eyes. His words and tone cut her. She had not meant to be foolish or brave or anything at all. It was fear that drove her to act. 

When Darcy is gone, Fitzwilliam whispers to her, “he is right. I can take care of myself.” His brow is knit into a scowl. 

“I am sorry.” She sinks down onto the sofa and bursts into tears. Inordinate fear at their anger floods her. “I did- did not mean to make you mad.” 

“No one is really mad. Please do not cry,” he begs her. 

However, that does nothing to stop her tears, now that they have started. Such a promising day had gone so badly, so quickly that she cannot even fathom it. He gives her his handkerchief. It is crumpled into her hand and forgotten. He offers to get her anything she might need. That does nothing. Finally, he wraps his arms around her and holds her tight until her sobs cease. 

Letting her go, he says slowly, “it is only that we feared for you. Thank you for what you did.” 

“I could not leave you there for him to hurt,” is all she can say. She goes to the window. It probably was stupid, she thinks. But she does not wish she had done anything differently. For a few minutes, they are both silent.

Then a strong coughing fit seizes him. His whole body convulses with the force of it. She gets him a glass of water. In the moments he can still the coughing long enough, he sips at it. It seems to relieve some of his pain. Eventually, the fit eases. The last bit of raggedness in his breath is gone.

A few moments later, he asks, his voice only a little scratchy, “will you go home?”

She is confused, because of course she cannot go home. “Oh, to Hunsford? Not unless you would like for me to leave. I will be restless, if I am there.”

“Not scared here?”

“I am, but I think the feeling would follow me wherever I might go.” 

He nods thoughtfully. “What Perry said…” he begins. 

“Do not trouble yourself to even address it. His actions towards the two of you were what bothered me the most.” She looks him in the eye. "Why was he so willing to do violence to you?"

He shrugs. “Darcy will sort it all out." He breathes deeply before speaking again. "But I was going to say maybe we should have a chaperone.”

The reply she should give is on the tip of her tongue. She wills herself to speak it. But her mouth is apparently not taking orders from her head at the moment. 

Instead, these words escape her, “I do not wish to have some busybody in the room. We would always be mindful of what we do and how we do it.”

“What have we said or done that a chaperone could object to?”

“You would not hug me again, I think.”

He grins at her and says invitingly, “I will hug you anytime you like.” 

“What if Papa were here?”

Archly, he replies, “I would shake his hand and tell him what fine daughters he has.”

“But you would not hug me in front of him.” She rolls her eyes at him to emphasize how ridiculous he is being.

He winks at her and assures, “I would hug you right in front of him.” 

She laughs, certain he is bluffing. “And if I asked you not to?”

“If you tell me to stop, I will stop. And if you do not want a chaperone, then we will not have one. I prefer to have your attention all to ourselves,” he flirts, tapping her on the nose with his finger. She blushes. 

“You are very pretty when you blush. We shall have to make you do it more often.” He briefly touches one of her ringlets. Of course, that makes her blush harder. 

Thinking it best to have a little space between them, she leaves his side and pulls a chair up to the window. In her absence, he lays down on the sofa. She finds a book on the desk and pretends to read it. In reality, she watches the rise and fall of his chest. Any hitch in his breath causes her concern. Every successive breath without one eases her mind.

Some time later, Mr. Eade, sent by Darcy, joins them. Through the locked door, he tries to tell her what has happened. But they can barely understand each other. All she manages to learn is that Perry is missing. The servant gives up and shouts that Darcy will explain it all when he returns with the key. 

Another half hour passes before that happens. He arrives with the physician, Mr. Brown. The man asks her if she was well. She assures him she is unharmed. Then she is ushered out of the room and seen to the library by a servant. The woman leaves her there. 

Alone, she cannot help replay the attack in her mind. The look on Fitzwilliam’s face as he could not breathe, the anger in Darcy’s eyes as he went after Mr. Perry, and the fear in her own chest as she tried to help, stick with her. She wants to make sense of all of it. But part of her knows that there is likely no sense to be made. Still, her mind tries.

After about ten minutes, Darcy joins her. Certain he has come to lambast her for not hiding, she cannot meet his eye. Instead of yelling at her, he takes up both her hands and kisses them. Then he crushes them against his chest. 

His voice is full of emotion. “The doctor said that if Fitz had another blow, it might have caused his lungs to seize up. He could have died. Forgive me my abrupt words. You did the right thing and I am grateful to you.” 

Still, she cannot look him in the eye. He sighs and mutters something she does not catch. “Are you afraid I am angry with you?”

She nods, sneaking a look at him. To her relief, his face is indeed grateful rather than cross. 

With hesitation he asks, “and did you think I might hurt you?”

She shakes her head. 

“Then you do not think me a total brute?”

“No, not at all,” she assures him. 

He sighs and releases her hands. Long fingers rub his temples and then his eyes. Clearly the whole situation is weighing on him. 

Hopefully, she asks, “is Mr. Perry caught?”

This makes Darcy’s fingers massage his eyes harder, before he looks back at her. 

“No. When I returned, he was gone. I searched the rooms nearby. There was no sign of him, other than the tools he left. I alerted the staff and the constable has been summoned. The house and the outbuildings have been searched and there is no telling where he might be.” 

“Are we safe?” She tries and fails to keep the fear from her voice.

“The house has been sealed up. He should not be able to get back in.”

That comforts her only until she remembers that she will have to leave for Hunsford later. “And no one knows why he might have attacked? Did he hold a grudge of some kind?” 

“Not that I have heard. The housekeeper is questioning everyone. Perhaps one of the servants has seen or heard something strange.”

That jogs her memory. “I did not say anything before, because I thought I was being silly, but once on our walk yesterday, I had the sensation that someone was watching us. It happened again when we were in the garden earlier."

“I felt it then too.But you saw no one?"

"No, though I looked."

“And you are sure it was not just because you were worried about being seen?”

“I was not worried about that the first time. The feeling was fleeting, but it was definite.”

Darcy looks thoughtful. “Perhaps Perry was at some other purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do not know, precisely. But if his purpose really was prurient, why would he tell us that? Why admit to watching us at all, when he could have lied about it?”

Elizabeth does not know the answer and that makes her feel uneasy. 

Mostly to himself, he says, “I think it would be best to have Mr. Eade resume his old work.” 

"What was Mr. Eade's old work?” 

He explains, “Eade is a trained bodyguard. We hired him to help us after the incident with Wickham. His job is stick by us and secure our safety in the event of something like this business today.”

"He does not listen in on your conversations?" She feels a tiny bit anxious about that now, after Perry’s words. 

"No, he is trained to be discreet." Sensing her discomfort, Darcy pats her arm. “Hopefully all will be resolved tonight and Eade may be a valet again by tomorrow.”

The doctor joins them to give Darcy a report. No lasting damage has been done. However, Fitzwilliam should rest in bed until morning to stave off further injury to the diaphragm. Elizabeth does not think it will be possible. He hardly seems capable of sitting still for long when music and conversation are not involved. But she hopes that he will. 

Darcy suggests that she wait in the music room while he speaks to Fitzwilliam. She fully expects to be sent back to Hunsford, at this point. The thought disappoints her, but she will understand. Fitzwilliam’s healing takes precedence over her amusement. 

Fitzwilliam has other plans. He defies the doctor’s orders and walks under his own power to the music room. Depositing himself on the sofa, he grins as Darcy shoots him a worried look. Turning to her, he gestures to the empty space next to the couch. 

“Pull up a chair, Miss Bennet. I am supposed to rest and not talk too much,” he complains cheerily. His voice has almost returned to normal. Darcy moves the chair for her. 

“So dancing is out of the question, then,” she teases. 

The injured man scowls. “Do not remind me.”

“But we will dance again. In fact, I thought we might go to an assembly soon, if there are any nearby.”

“There are several,” Fitz says in excitement. 

Together he and Darcy rattle off the names of rooms in Tonbridge and other nearby towns. He also remembers that the Smiths are holding a ball at Wilford House on Friday. They have been invited, though no one expects them to attend.

Thinking of Darcy’s aversion to strangers, she asks him, “which one would you prefer?”

“The Smiths. But do you have something suitable to wear?”

“It just so happens that I have one ball gown that is perfect for such an occasion.” 

“Brought from home?”

“No, my aunt had it made for me in London. I told her no, yet the dress hangs in my room.”

“I am grateful again to your aunt, for her foresight this time.” 

“Then accept the invitation,” she suggests happily. 

Fitzwilliam mutters, “it will be strange, to be in society again, after my absence.” He shivers. The room is cold, but she thinks that he shakes for another reason. 

“We should have a fire,” Darcy realizes. “I will get a servant.” 

“No!” she pleads. 

Fear grips her. She cannot bear the idea of having one come in, just yet. All she can picture is Mr. Perry in a house servant’s clothes. Even Mr. Eade, who guards them, seems nefarious to her, though she knows they trust him. Darcy looks at her curiously, but agrees. 

Rather than call a servant, he goes to the fireplace himself. Usually fires are lit with embers, but there is a striker, at hand, just in case. He uses it with skill, his movements are methodical and precise. Both she and Fitzwilliam watch his progress with interest. From spark to large and steady flames, the job takes him a little under a ten minutes. 

“Thank you, dearest.” Fitzwilliam sits and then scoots down to the end of the sofa closest to the warmth. 

But Darcy does not answer. A scowl on his face, he paces the room several times. Fitzwilliam begs him to sit. Compliantly, he does, stretching out in a chair. His posture gives the appearance of relaxation. But the hand that covers his eyes and the rigid way he holds his body gives him away. Something bothers him. 

Fitzwilliam assures him, “all is well now. No need for brooding. The threat is gone and we are safe.” 

"But now she is terrified of me and terrified of servants." 

Fitzwilliam looks at her helplessly.

Elizabeth promises him, “I am not terrified of you, Darcy. I thought you might be cross and yell, but that was it." He does not respond. 

Now Fitzwilliam scowls and she begins to worry that she will be at it next. But then his face brightens. He retrieves a mahogany box from a small table against the wall. As he opens it on the sofa, she sees that it holds a pipe, some spills, and a smaller container. Horrifyingly captivated, she wonders if it is opium. But opium pipes are longer, she is almost certain. So it is not that. Nor is it tobacco.

Quietly, apparently eager to not alert Darcy, he asks her to get and light a small lamp from the mantle. As she places the lamp next to him, he opens the smaller box and loads a bit of brown material from it into the pipe. She smells a faint, earthy odor.

In one fluid movement, he lights the spill and then the bowl of the pipe. His inhalation is deep. Rising to go to Darcy, he lets out a steady stream of smoke. Fitzwilliam goes to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. His fingertips lightly stroke Darcy’s shoulder blade.

“Let us have a pipe. A good smoke will set you to rights,” he offers sweetly. 

Darcy’s hand slides down his face and tugs at his chin. They look at each other and his expression softens. His lips twitch into a smile. He reaches out his hand, takes the pipe, and eagerly inhales. Fitzwilliam takes it back from him and inhales again. They exhale in unison. 

“Good man,” Fitzwilliam praises. Then he turns to her and holds the pipe out. 

“What is it?” she asks with dread. Yet she takes it from. 

“Hashish," he assures her, “it is nothing worrisome, like opium. The effect is like that of alcohol, only more relaxing.” 

That does not sound frightening to her. So she brings the pipe to her lips. Remembering her first and only attempt at smoking tobacco, she barely sips the smoke from the mouthpiece. Even so, she coughs and sputters. He laughs and pats her on the back. The men trade it back and forth, smoking until the room is fragrant and hazy. She manages not to cough on her second draw from the pipe and congratulates herself. 

She takes stock of her reactions to the substance. Her eyes feel a bit puffy and a strange sensation begins to spread through her whole body, like little bubbles rising and popping within her. Each one comes with its own spark of exhilaration. Though she feels different, she is almost certain she is thinking in the same way as she always has.

The fear and anxiety over the attack fade into the distant background of her mind. For more than an hour, the three of them ramble on about nothing and everything. It feels like the most interesting and meaningful conversation she will ever have. Nothing has ever thrilled her as much as when she makes one of them laugh or they tell her that she has a good point. Every glance that she shares with them causes her stomach to tie in knots. 

Eventually, Fitzwilliam gets up to stoke the fire. The three of them lapse into a comfortable silence. When it is roaring again, he watches it, his back to them. Darcy gets up and readies his cello to play. She puts her feet up on the sofa and brings her knees up under her chin. 

The hashish makes her feel expansive, as if the whole of her soul is trying to fill up the room, brushing up against theirs. She wonders if they feel it too, or if the sensation is hers alone. But just then Fitzwilliam turns to her, his angelic face made golden by the fire, and a look of recognition passes between them. 

He leaves the fire and extends a hand to her. “Would you dance with me, Elizabeth? Slow this time, no jostling you about the room. Doctor’s orders.” 

His casual and familiar use of her given name jolts her. Her cheeks redden. 

“I told you I would be making you blush more often,” he teases.

“I did not think you would use my name against me.”

He laughs. “Whatever means necessary.” 

She slips her hand into his. What happens is not a waltz. There are not any steps. It can hardly be called a dance even. Instead, he holds her and shuffles around, their movements cursory. She is so close to him that she discovers he smells lovely, like clean linen and rich, deep earth. She had been so distracted during their dance the day before, that she had not even noticed. 

A feeling, at once satisfying and unfulfilling, spreads through her like a flame. The sensation increases exponentially when he dips his head down just a touch and whispers in her ear. “Darcy and I were talking about it last night and we are so glad that you did not marry Mr. Collins. Imagine the horror we would have felt upon meeting you for the first time as his wife.”

Inexplicably, alongside the usual disgust at the idea of being Mrs. Collins, there is a pang of grief inside her at the thought. It is a feeling of something lost and irretrievable. The shock of the it must be written on her face, because he says, “I see you feel it too.” 

Unable to stop, she imagines her own aching at meeting them and falling in love and having to hide it. She catches herself, because she is not falling in love. She has an understandable, but foolish infatuation with them. It will fade in time and friendship remain in its place. Yet it would have been hard, to meet them for the first time as Mrs. Collins and know any friendship between them would only ever be polite and perfunctory at best. 

Perhaps sensing her dismay, he holds her tighter. She lets him. The hand that rests on her upper back inches lower and lower until it sits at the small of her back, keeping her pinned against him. He presses his cheek against hers and his hair tickles her face pleasantly. She worries that his hand will move even lower or that he will press his mouth against hers. As soon as she worries about it, she wants him to do it anyway. But his hand stays where it is and his cheek stays lightly pressed against hers. 

“But we do not have to worry. Because you did not marry him and we may enjoy your company indefinitely.”

“Perhaps not indefinitely,” she reminds him. 

“Do you really plan on making us take you to London to get a husband? There are much nicer things to do there. We could spend a year, at least, showing you its delights. A husband might want all your attention to himself. We might never see you. Surely there is no great urgency.”

Boldly, she lays her head down on his shoulder and can hear the muffled beating of his heart, strong and fast. She sighs. “It does not have to be right away, no. But even if I wanted to, I should not live with Bingley and Jane forever.”

“But you might not tire of the fun the five of us will get up to for a long time.” She thinks that he means more to comfort himself than convince her.

“Are you so eager to keep me around?” 

“I believe that I truly am,” he answers honestly, which seems to surprise him as much as it does her. 

“Because you can sleep now?”

He pulls away from her and looks her in the eye. “For many reasons. New ones seem to occur to me by the moment. Each endears you to me more.” 

Seemingly shocked by his own admission, he says nothing else. Heart hammering in her chest, she closes her eyes and rests her head back on his shoulder. She pretends that she can take his words seriously and that this moment can last forever.

Of course, neither thing is true. Darcy ends his song and she breaks away from Fitzwilliam, needing space. It is easy enough to dismiss feelings that are hers alone. It is harder when he seems to reflect those feelings back to her. 

Fitzwilliam excuses himself, saying he is going to the library and will return shortly. Very soon after he leaves, dinner arrives. Along with it comes Mrs. Jackson, Rosings’ housekeeper. In her late thirties and plain, she has an open and friendly face, but a serious demeanor at the moment. She has come to tell them all she learned about Mr. Perry. 

She has just begun her explanation when Fitzwilliam returns, with a book in his hand and news that the constable has arrived. He wants to speak to the two of them later. Mrs. Jackson begins her explanation over again. 

The woman speaks in a breathless, hurried way. “Mr. Perry is a carpenter by trade. He does repairs here at Rosings and is hired out when there is no work for him. He has been with us ten years. Before that, he was at Pemberley. After the elder Lord Fitzwilliam reduced the staff there, he came to Kent.”

“Do you remember him, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam asks. 

“I have no recollection of him.”

“He is not a very memorable man,” the housekeeper concedes. 

Fitzwilliam smirks. “I am sure I shall not soon forget him.” Dismissively, she rolls her eyes at him and he laughs.

She continues, “Perry left Derbyshire with a letter of recommendation. So he was readily accepted here. The work he does is very good. You cannot tell the things he fixes were ever damaged. Despite my best attempts, I have uncovered no bad word of him.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not a whisper of a temper, even,” she says almost apologetically. “However, he has always been shy of company and a bit slow to his work. Because of the quality, he is forgiven his pace.” 

“He never spoke about hating Pemberley or anything like that?”

She shakes her head. “He never spoke of much, other than his job. Any time I had to give him an order it was yes, ma’am and no, ma’am, no small talk or familiarity. There is no telling what set him off. I am sorry for what he did. I’d never have had him on staff, if I suspected him.”

“I am sure that no one will blame you. A servant with a spotless record of ten years is not someone to be suspected of being capable of sudden violence.” 

“There was something suspicious, but only in retrospect. He was set to start repairs on the Johnson’s roof a month ago. But then there was a leak in Miss de Bourgh’s bath upstairs. He insisted that the whole floor underneath must be replaced. I spoke to the lad who helps him. He said the repairs could already have been completed. Yet almost no progress has been made. Mr. Perry has often been absent, the boy knew not where.”

Darcy swears and calls Mr. Eade in from the hallway. He asks her to repeat what she said. Mr. Eade listens. He grows increasingly concerned. Elizabeth can understand why. If Mr. Perry was prone to outbursts of this kind, his behavior would be understandable. Hotheaded servants are not uncommon. But she begins to think that Darcy was right to worry. For an otherwise steady and quiet man to entirely shirk his duties and then suddenly attack them, is beyond strange. 

“I suggest we enact the same precautions that we took with Mr. Wickham, sir,” Mr. Eade replies, when Mrs. Jackson is done. Darcy agrees and the bodyguard resumes his place outside the doorway. 

But the housekeeper remains, even after she has exhausted her information about Perry. As they are busy eating, she proceeds to fill the air with a stream of gossip about the neighborhood. It is not the dinner she envisioned, but she decides she might as well learn something helpful while the woman is with them. 

Elizabeth asks about the families who are likely to attend the Smith’s ball. The resulting stream of information about the Smiths, Webbs, Metcalfes, and she loses track of who all else, is more than enough to satisfy her scant curiosity. 

The remains of their dinner are taken away. Elizabeth is disappointed that Mrs. Jackson does not go with the other servants as they leave. But to her relief, they are not to relegated to an evening of small talk and gossip. Fitzwilliam hand the book he brought from the library to Darcy. 

“Read for us?” he asks expectantly. 

Darcy inclines his head. “Yes, My Lord.”

“Ha, Darcy, enough of that. Please read to us, my most talented and eloquent friend, who reads poetry so well that it is a wonder the Gods themselves have not commissioned him as their personal bard.”

Mrs. Jackson clears her throat and gives him a very pointed look. 

“Forgive me. I have been reading too much in Ancient Latin and Greek lately. It is, of course, God himself who should commission him.” 

Darcy frowns. “Either way, I cannot possibly live up to that epithet.”

“I have faith in you.”

“You have brought me John Donne? Not something modern?”

“Classics never disappoint,” Fitzwilliam reminds him. 

Elizabeth is eager for the reading. Of course she has read Donne, but with Fitzwilliam’s description, she is excited to hear Darcy’s delivery. Though it is a bit rote at first, he soon forgets to be nervous and begins to feel what he reads. By the time he comes to “The Baite,” she is well in agreement with Fitzwilliam. He could charm any god. 

The way he reads the first stanza in particular may stay with her for the rest of her life, because he is looking directly at her, with a steady and affectionate gaze. 

Come live with me, and be my love,  
And we will some new pleasures prove  
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,  
With silken lines, and silver hooks. 

He gets through a few more poems before the clock chimes a quarter to seven o’clock, shocking her. It does not feel that late. Reluctantly, she says that she should be going. Fitzwilliam looks disappointed, but quickly recovers. She feels the same. If she could stay, she would. But it would be best not to upset her sister and Mr. Collins. 

In the courtyard, they are alone for the moment. Waiting for the carriage to arrive, they make plans for the following day. The lake is quickly settled on, if the skies are clear. If not, they will stay at Hunsford and see what fun can be had there. 

Fitzwilliam says, “if you catch a fish, perhaps we will invite you to dinner to eat it, as well.”

“That is excellent incentive to fish well, then.” 

They hear the clattering of the carriage’s wheels on stone in the distance. Fitzwilliam catches her hand. For a moment, he is still. Then he lightly caresses the skin on the back of her hand. She sighs at the sensation this produces. He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it twice, each time his lips linger for a moment. 

She has no time to react to that, because he presents her hand to Darcy. He takes it gently. Without breaking eye contact, he brushes a kiss across her knuckles. She tries to formulate a reply or some reciprocating response, but she is not quick enough. The carriage arrives, she is helped into it, and the driver pulls away, before she can give answer. 

She does not even look back. There is too much to consider, too much moving through her mind at once. Her hand feels more alive than the rest of her now and she presses her lips to the spots where theirs touched. Then she laughs at herself for doing something so sentimental. She cannot allow these feelings to grow. And yet they do, by the moment, with no bidding from her. 

It is all baffling. If she had met them separately, she could accept what is occurring. The attachment between Mr. Bingley and Jane had been similarly quick. She recognizes all the same symptoms in herself now. But she feels that way about both of them, which is confusing and inconvenient, because she can have neither of them.

Complicating matters, she can no more figure them out than she can herself. The freeness of their address with her and with each other, the acceptance of her situation, and their general lack of consideration for the things that most men find important, confuses and intrigues her. She has never met their like. She wants to know everything there is to know about them. 

It is clear that both men like her a great deal and wish to please her. She has seen that before, when a set of brothers from Meryton had fallen in love with Jane. They had made themselves obnoxious in their futile competition. Though annoying, this had been understandable. However, Fitzwilliam and Darcy do not compete at all. In fact, they cooperate for her attention and affection. 

All her considerations along those lines cease when the carriage arrives. The light in his office window tells her Mr. Collins is home. There is no way he will let an outing to Rosings pass without wanting to know the intimate details of her visit. She passes by his study and he calls her in and offers her a seat. 

“Tell me all about the picnic and Rosings. I trust my patroness was well?”

She breathes deeply and prepares herself to tell the story of Mr. Perry's assault. Once she begins, she finds it is easier than expected to tell. Mr. Collins is as shocked hearing her story as she was to experience it. He gets up and paces the room nervously while she speaks. 

When she is finished, he says, “my word! I cannot imagine what fright you must have felt.”

“At the time, I was more scared for Lord Fitzwilliam. Perry seemed more interested in him.”

“Your compassion and selflessness truly does you credit,” he praises her. “I will call on them in the morning and offer my sympathies.”

“That is not necessary. They are coming to take me to the lake at eight o'clock. You may talk to them then.” 

“So soon?” he asks in faint astonishment.

“Yes, I think we shall see them quite often. Lord Fitzwilliam needs the exercise. The lake shall do him good.”

Mr. Collins takes off his spectacles and sets them gently down on his desk. “Elizabeth, I think that in the future, if you are to be spending so much time with them, you should have someone to accompany you. Tomorrow, you may take Mrs. Ross.” 

If he had suggested anyone else, she would have hated the idea. But having Molly along will be lovely. So she happily agrees. 

He nods to her. “Thank you. And I have one more favor to ask. Tomorrow a friend, Mr. Redding, will be coming by around two and staying for dinner. He is eager to make your acquaintance. Please make sure to be back in time to meet him when he arrives.” 

"All right." Her answer is a little reluctant this time. 

"His consequence is not equal to that of your new acquaintances. But he has 2,000 a year, a comfortable home in London, and he is very amiable. Even you will not be able to fault him on that account, I am sure."

Elizabeth does not like the pleased little smirk he tries to hide, but perhaps, whatever Mr. Collins intentions are, Mr. Redding will be another good addition to her list of friends in Kent.


End file.
